


the lady beaumont

by minnow_writes



Series: vampires in suburbia [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 2nd Person, F/F, age gap (kind of), and other supernatural milfs, dominant femme(s), submissive butch, supernatural entities in suburbia - that you fuck!, vampire milf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:35:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28446249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnow_writes/pseuds/minnow_writes
Summary: What starts as a favor for your ex knocks over a series of dominoes that tosses you into the supernatural world-within-your-world.or, sexscapades with a hot vampire milf, et al.
Relationships: Reader/Original Character(s)
Series: vampires in suburbia [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089131
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. (1)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a completely self-indulgent erotica series that I write for fun. Age gap (kind of) tag because most of the characters in this series are hundreds of years old; implied that reader is late 20s - early 30s.
> 
> Also find my erotica at minnowrites.wordpress.com, if that suits your fancy (I like AO3 better because minimal interface, minimal data collection, nonprofit, no ads).
> 
> Content tags will be listed at the notes of each installment.
> 
>  **Content tags for (1):** femme domme, milf(s), oral, slow burn, strap, submissive butch, vampires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A miserable PTA-hosted birthday party for your ex’s kid ends up having a little more than just catty, homophobic suburban moms.

“ _Please?_ ” Cass whines over the phone. “I swear I’ll only ever make you do this once.”

“I’m not really digging the idea of being the only dyke in the suburban warzone that is a third-grader’s PTA _birthday party_ , Cass.”

“All you have to do is drop off the stuff I made!”

“And also stay the entire time.”

“…And also stay the entire time. But Nico loves you! He’ll be so happy to see you there!”

“ _Cass._ ” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I love Nico too, but that’s not the point.”

You know she’s pouting on the other end. “I’ll buy you pizza and beer this weekend?”

“…This weekend _and_ next weekend.”

“Yes!” Cass exclaims. “Two weekends in a row! Any place you want! I’ll even order from Domino’s!”

Cass _hates_ Domino’s and makes a point of shitting on them every time you bring it up, so this is kind of big. “Fine,” you groan, “I’m only doing this because I love pizza. Also you, maybe.”

“ _Ohmyfuckinggodthankyousomuch_ you’re a _saint_. I’ll text you the details. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure no one’s surprised by you showing up.”

You bark out a laugh. “I think they’ll find something to be surprised about anyway.”

“How else would they keep themselves entertained?” Cass chuckles. “Absolute bloodsuckers the bunch of them, yeah?”

“ _Tch_. Yeah.”

* * *

This must be a modern rendition of Dante’s _Inferno_. He had levels for each deadly sin or something – and you think this encompasses like, five sins.

At least.

You approach the secretary’s desk and give a little wave. Bluish light from the computer monitor washes over the secretary’s wrinkled face, which is propped in the center of her palm. She clicks at a chunky mouse with far too much force every now and then. Tiny little distorted screens reflect off her thick glasses.

Like a very unmonumental park statue she sits, and she pays you absolutely no mind.

“Hi,” you try again, and her gaze finally slides your way. She squints a little at you, and the corners of her lips – too bright with red lipstick – twitch down almost imperceptibly. You hoist up the snack tray and gift a little. “I’m here for Nico’s birthday party. Cass, his mom, had a work thing last minute and couldn’t make it.”

She eyes the snack tray and then you. Her hand that was holding her chin drops on the desk too loudly to be necessary. _Click. Click._ “Name?”

The pigeons _definitely_ shit all over her.

You tell her, and her fingers mash at the keyboard. A printer from somewhere else in the office whirrs to life. She gives you one final look, then slaps both hands on the desk and pushes herself out of her chair and walks around a hallway.

She’s gone for a good ten minutes. Air hisses out of your nose.

Sloth.

When she finally comes back, all she returns with is a single sticker badge with your name on it under **VISITOR.** She slides it across the desk. “They’re holding the party in room 207.” She’s completely monotone. “Down the hall and to the right.”

“Thanks,” you say, but she’s already committed to sitting back at her computer. Your mouth pulls in a thin line, and you walk out with your badge.

Cass owes you a fucking _month_ of pizza and beer.

* * *

It doesn’t take you long to find 207. A small chalkboard propped outside the door with _Nico’s Ninth!_ written in That Super Specifically Annoying Suburban Décor Cursive tells you as much. There are also little blue balloons tied to it. Nico’s favorite color is green.

_Ugh._

You draw a steadying breath and cross the threshold.

As expected, at least five pairs of eyes try their best to nonchalantly stare at you all at the same time. (And it’s not the kids.)

“Hi!” A squeaky voice spears your right ear. “Cass told us you were coming.” The woman, a few inches shorter than you with short blonde hair, takes the snack tray and gift from you. “I’m Marilyn.” She offers you a hand.

You take it as nicely as you can muster. It’s like holding a dead fish. “Nice to meet you.”

She pulls her hand away and offers you a tight-lipped attempt at politeness. “ _Such_ a shame Cass couldn’t make it.”

Ah.

“ _Hey!_ ” Nico saves you from your misery. “You made it!”

Before you can scan around to find his scrappy little head, a small object that feels roughly the size of a tiny human collides with your leg with a _thump_. You look down, and the little shit is climbing onto it like a monkey.

“I did!” You ruffle his hair. You don’t look up, but you know half the moms are already ogling you with fascination. He releases your leg and you kneel down. “I know you’re happier to have me here anyway. _I’m_ your favorite.”

“Yeah!” Nico slaps his hands on your shoulders. “You’re way cooler than mom. She’s _so_ lame. You _always_ let me stay up later!”

“ _Hey_ , Nico,” you smile, trying to ignore the fact that now everyone in the room probably thinks you and Cass are having an affair, “be sure to grab some snacks. I want you on a sugar high when I bring you back to your mom and dad’s.”

Elated at this forbidden prospect, Nico beelines to one of the tables. When you get up, you catch the remains of a horrified expression on one of their faces. You slide your hands in your pockets. No one is going to ask you to help out, so you decide to melt to one side of the room and make the best out of being stuck here for at least another hour. It can be a kind of spectator sport, you think. They can’t actually do anything to hurt you – it would be socially unacceptable if they said anything to your face – so you try to relish the unfolding fires and battles around you instead.

Also, if anyone tries to talk shit about Cass, you’ll have something to report back with later. You tune in on the conversation to your left.

“How’s Ashleigh been doing in school, Caroline?”

“Oh, she’s been doing well,” Caroline replies. “She got a perfect score on her last book report. And she’s already passed one of her times tables levels. I was curious, you know, about where she stood in the class, so I asked Mrs. Windsor where she ranked. Mrs. Windsor was kind of nasty about it, for some reason, which _I_ just don’t understand. I mean, wouldn’t _you_ want to know how your child is doing?” Caroline huffs. “Anyway, she’s top of the class right now.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

Pride.

You disengage your brain from _that_ conversation and find the table where two moms are arranging the gifts. They’re a little farther away, so you only catch bits and pieces of their exchange.

“—just _love_ how you arrange everything, Susan.”

“Oh, it’s nothing really, Angela, I just try my best to make things look good—”

“—wish _I_ could decorate my own house half as good as you can—” While Susan’s back is turned and moving on to another section of the table, Angela turns some of the gift bags that were neatly arranged at a subtly crooked angle.

Envy.

You let out a sigh. Lesbian u-haul drama is tamer than this aggressive-passive-aggressive shit.

“Don’t get me wrong, I _love_ Heather,” you hear at your left again. You barely hear it, actually – Caroline is half-whispering. “She’s a great president. Even though she doesn’t have any kids enrolled here. I just think, well, I’d have organized this whole thing a little differently—”

You raise your brows. _Treachery_ at the third-grader’s birthday bash. Very spicy—

“You must be bored out of your mind.”

You snap to your right, startled as fuck, and the woman who has suddenly appeared flashes you a quick grin.

She’s taller than you by two inches. It might be heels. Tight darkwash jeans. Black v-neck tucked in with a belt. Her hair, dark brown and shoulder-length, is cut to curve in at the bottom, framing her oval face and strong, curved jawline.

“I—” You’re not sure what to say, mainly because _what the fuck_ , also because your brain is short-circuiting at how fucking hot she is. You try to maintain eye contact with her, but you can’t stop thinking about how her dark lipstick outlines her smile. What the fuck do you even say? _It’s more like everyone here is ten years older than me and avoids gay people like the plague?_

“Is that so?”

Oh. _Fuck._

Heat flushes up your neck because _all_ of the blood is draining away from your face. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No, no,” she waves your stuttering apology away—you notice her perfectly manicured nails, painted a shining black, “don’t apologize for telling the truth.” She regards you for a moment, then offers her hand. “Heather.”

You shake it. It’s a little chilly but in a weirdly good way, and her shake is firm. You swallow. Why are you so nervous? “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She releases your hand. “How do you know Cass?”

 _You’re her friend. Just her friend. We don’t want to make this too weird._ “I’m her ex.”

Why the _fuck_ did you say that?

“Oh?” Heather’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Well, I can’t say she doesn’t have good taste.”

Is—

Is the president of the fucking PTA _flirting_ with you?

You don’t know what to do. Your brain is filled with a bunch of mini-yous, and all of their paperwork is on fire. On the one hand, Heather is probably ten years older than you. On the other hand, she’s stupidly, _stupidly_ attractive. “I—thank you. I’ll let her know.”

 _What the fuck, man!_ You bury your hands deeper in your pockets, as if that’s going to ground you to the floor.

“No,” Heather smiles, flashing her fucking perfect, beautiful teeth at you again, “don’t.” You give her a quizzical look, and she laughs – it’s a smooth, pleasing sound. Her voice drops and she leans in a little to your ear. “Wouldn’t want anyone getting jealous, now.”

Your entire abdomen twists up into a hot coil.

Lust.

“You might want to laugh like I told a funny joke,” she whispers. “We may or may not have a captive audience.”

You laugh like she told a funny joke, and she pulls back and laughs with you, but her eyes are eating you up. Your chest is about to turn inside out.

“It was lovely meeting you.” She slides her hands into her pockets and gives you one last smile that burns you up into a crisp. “And I hope to see you around. Not all of us bite, you know.”

* * *

From the light of the TV, you see Cass shove an ungodly amount of chips into her mouth.

“You’re cleaning that up,” you tell her over disgusting crunching noises.

She looks down at her crumb-covered shirt and shrugs. After she swallows, she points the neck of her beer bottle at you. “So how did it go at Nico’s birthday hellscape?”

“It was just as awful as I thought it would be.” The conversation you had with Heather clambers its way up your throat, but you push it down. “Nico was happy to see me, though.”

Cass nudges you with her foot from across the couch. “See! I told you! You survived. _So_ proud of you, sweetie.”

You scoff and push her foot away. “When’s the last time you washed that thing?”

She laughs and wiggles her toes dangerously close to the plate of pizza on your lap. You jab her foot with your finger. “ _Not_ near my sustenance! What was the work thing you had anyway?”

“Oh.” She throws her lower lip out and shrugs, her tell-tale sign that she’s about to lie. “Boss wanted me to finish something late—”

“Tabitha never makes you stay late. She’s the nicest boss in the world.”

“It was a one-in-a-million exception?”

“You were getting dick,” you conclude, and Cass fakes being affronted so badly you can’t help but laugh.

“Listen!” Cass protests, “Nico was _guaranteed_ to be out of the house, and Mark _doesn’t_ have a nice boss and has been working for like, _two weeks_ late-night—”

You shake your head. “Can’t believe you lied _and_ missed your son’s school birthday party so you could have a dick appointment with your loving husband. Toxic. Cancelled.”

“What can I say,” Cass sighs dramatically, “I’ve always been a problematic ex.”

“Uh. _Hey_ , Cass.”

She squints at you. “What did you do?”

You ignore her. “Does, um, does your PTA clique, do they already know that—”

“I’m bi? It bubbles up in the grapevine every three months,” she deadpans. “Like fucking clockwork. It’s kind of freaky, actually. Why?”

You grimace, even though you should be relieved that they already know. “No reason, no reason.”

 _Slapslapslapslapslap_ Cass’s feet pummel your thigh. “What did you _dooooooooo_ —”

“I may or may not have said I was your ex to the PTA president.”

“ _Heather?_ ” Cass sputters out laughter around her beer. “How on earth did you manage _that?_ ”

“She cornered me, okay?” Your head falls back and you groan. “I was minding my own damn business and she _ambushed_ me!”

“Well, I’m not surprised.” Cass takes a sip from her bottle, then frowns when she realizes its empty. “Heather is kind of her own person. Nobody can really pin her down. She makes a mean cherry pie, too.”

“Why is she the president of the PTA if she doesn’t have any kids at the school?”

“How the fuck do you even know any of this?”

You roll your eyes. “PTA moms make snide comments all fucking day. It’s almost like it’s all they know how to do. I listened to that shit for an _hour_ , Cass.”

“Okay, valid.” Cass grabs another handful of chips, and gestures with them while she talks. “Heather is really fucking good at running shit. I don’t know. Maybe she’s got a connection with the principal or something. I vote for her each year though because she’s not a petty bitch like everyone else.” She shoves her chips in her mouth. “Also, I’d be at a loss without her cherry pies.”

“Hmm. The mysterious machinations of the local PTA.” You lean back a little more into your seat and prop a leg on your coffee table, hoping Cass is too busy with her head in the chips bag like an ostrich to notice your uncomfortable curiosity.

“What else did you guys talk about,” she asks innocently, “besides our relationship history?”

A piece of cheese tangles itself in your throat. You cough until it dislodges, and wash it down with some beer. “I just mentioned I was your ex. She asked how I knew you.”

“So that was it?” Cass fiddles with her phone nonchalantly. “ _Hi, I’m Heather. How do you know Cass? Oh, you’re her ex? That’s great. Nice meeting you!_ ”

“Yep, that was exactly it.”

“Nothing else?”

“Nooooope.” You pop the ‘p’.

Cass keeps fiddling with her phone and you bite into your pizza. About ten seconds go by.

“Actually,” you pipe up, “she did ask if I could help with this thing—”

Your phone vibrates, and you pause to glance at it.

> **C(ass):** Attached contact – _Heather Beaumont_

The _biggest_ ,

_fattest,_

shit-eating grin smears itself _all_ over Cass’s face.

“I hate you.”

“For helping you get some puss?” Cass shakes her head. “ _Tsk._ And they say _I’m_ the problematic one.”

* * *

Cass has to call Mark and tell him that she’ll be spending the night because there’s _An Important Gay Operation_ occurring. Mark reminds her to take asprin in the morning. God bless that man.

“I can’t fucking believe I sent that.” You’re trying to stare at the ceiling. Cass’s hair tickles your face from where she’s leaning over your head. She’s also upside-down. She looks stupid. You laugh.

“You gotta play her gaaaaame,” her vodka-laden whisper makes you scrunch your face up. “Heather likes the—” _hiccup_ “ _—_ control. She said _not_ to tell me what she said ‘nd now you’re gonna get a reaction out of her. Ooh.” Cass flops down beside you. “Laying on the floor is much better.”

“Agreed.” You turn to look at Cass, who is now also intrigued with the ceiling. “How’d you figure out she was flirting with me so fast anyway?”

“Mmmm she may have flirted with _me_ a lil’ bit when I first joined the PTA.”

You poke her cheek with your index finger. “That was after you married Mark, stinker.”

“I told’er as much. She r’spected it. We love Mr. Markie.”

“We love Mr. Markie,” you concur with a serious nod. “Nothing weird after that?”

“ _Totally_ friendly. Very respectful. She keeps it hidden from the PTA too. Methinks the ladies are under the impression she’s-a _strong-independent-woman-who-don-need-no-mans_ type. Nah. Justa hot lesbian.”

“A master of disguise,” you breathe in awe. “A really, _really_ hot master of disguise.”

Your phone vibrates.

Cass shoots up and grabs it from the coffee table. She draws in a long gasp. “Your really hot master of disguise…” she turns the phone screen to reveal a message notification. “… _Heather Beauuuumont._ ”

Your heart twists in your chest as you take the phone wordlessly.

> ** _You:_** _Cass said she appreciates knowing she has good taste._

> ** _Heather:_** _Naughty._

“That’s all she said?” Cass takes the phone from you in disbelief. “ _Naughty?_ ”

“I mean…” you flop back down on the carpet. _Naughty._ You can hear her saying it, low and sultry and a little chastising. A blush creeps up your neck. “…that’s far from an innocent response.”

“ _Dots!_ ” Cass practically collapses on top of you, holding the phone so you can both see. The three little dots persist for a while, and both of you are dead silent, holding your breath in excited and horrified suspense.

 _>_ **_Heather:_ ** _Remember how I said not all of us bite?_

Cass looks at you and raises a brow. You snatch the phone from her, and she crams her face in right next to yours to watch.

> ** _You:_** _Yes._

_> **Heather:** I do._

> ** _Heather:_** _Bite._

“Oh my god,” Cass whispers.

You’re far too drunk and daring right now and you’re not sure if you’re gonna regret it.

_> **You:** You’re lucky I’m into that._

“Oh my _god._ ” Cass takes you by both of your cheeks and looks at you dead in the eye. “If you don’t fuck Heather, I _swear_ I will never buy you food as repayment ever again.”

You talk as best you can with Cass squishing your cheeks. “I can’t believe this is happening, Cass.”

Your phone buzzes.

It buzzes again.

And again.

And again.

It takes you and Cass four buzzes to figure out that Heather isn’t texting you.

>> ** _INCOMING CALL:_** _Heather Beaumont_

Cass dives for a couch pillow and throws it over her face to muffle her noises.

“I’m too fucking drunk for this,” is all you say before picking up and putting it on speaker. “Hi, Heather,” you manage in your most sober voice possible.

“Hi,” she replies, and considering what you just texted each other, she sounds very normal. “I was wondering if you’d like to help me make goodie bags next weekend. We’re giving them out to the teachers for teacher appreciation week.”

“Isn’t that something you’d ask Cass?”

Ah, drunk you, forever lacking in brain cells. Cass emerges from her pillow and punches you in the arm _hard_. **_Idiot!_** she mouths. (You’re the articulate drunk, but Cass is the smart one.)

Heather chuckles. “I’d think I’d prefer to have you this time.”

“Okay,” you exhale. Cass grips your shoulder.

“Great. I’ll text you my address.” Heather pauses, and you can feel her smiling through the phone. “Any particular time that works for you?”

“Any,” you say, only barely hearing the conversation.

“I’ll text that to you too, then. Have a good night.”

“You too.”

She hangs up.

You sit there with your phone on your chest, completely still and vibrating with anticipation at the same time. Cass’s hand on your shoulder is the only thing that’s keeping you in orbit.

“We…” Cass says, “we gotta…we gotta pack you a go bag.”

“What?”

“Your harness…your strap…dude. Food and water. Maybe a first aid kit.” She turns to you and begins to laugh. “This is Heather _Beaumont_ we’re talking about here. She’s gonna fuck you into the next _century._ ”

* * *

The weekend takes _forever_ to arrive. Cass teases you the entire time, and it’s not helping. Especially now. You’ve only got a few hours before you head over, and you’re staring at your backpack blankly.

> ** _You:_** _Do you think she’ll like the red dick or the blue dick better?_

> ** _C(ass):_** _How the hell am I supposed to know? I’ve never fucked her. Send pictures of each and ask her yourself._

> ** _You:_** _I’ll just pack both._

> ** _C(ass):_** _Boo, you’re no fun._

You pause mid-zip of the backpack and look at the drawer where you keep all of your Sex And Other Shit. Another packing choice, you decide, is also in order.

* * *

Maybe soft packing was a bad idea, because it’s making you horny as fuck. But it’s too late to change your mind about that, even though you’re all too aware of the dick in your pants as you press Heather’s doorbell.

Your phone buzzes.

> ** _C(ass):_** _I can’t believe my ex is going to smash the hottest milf in our school district. I’ll know a celebrity. What a career-changing opportunity._

_Pfft._

> ** _C(ass):_** _You should think about putting that on your resume. Promise me you’ll remember me when you’re famous—_

“I’m glad to see you didn’t get lost.”

Your finger hits the lock button on your phone so hard you’re sure it’s going to leave an indent. Heather’s smirking in the doorway, one hand leaning on the doorknob. She looks like she just got back from somewhere because she’s wearing a long, dark trenchcoat – it is a bit chilly out this evening, even you had to wear a thick longsleeve tucked in your jeans. You shove your phone in your back pocket and grip your bag’s strap a little tighter and will your stupid fucking butch brain to say _something_.

Heather saves you the need by sidestepping and opening the door a little wider. “Come on in.”

You step inside and wait to follow her lead. She leads you down the hallway and into what looks like her living room, which is also attached to the kitchen. “Sorry about the mess,” she says as she pulls her keys and sunglasses from her pocket and tosses them into a small bowl. “I had to run out to the store before you got here.”

 _The mess?_ The place is fucking immaculate. It looks like one of those staged homes, with all the chic, minimalistic couches and glass coffee tables and shit. Her kitchen even has a granite island. Jesus. “No worries,” you reply. “It looks great.” You shift on your feet – it makes you aware of your dick again, and you swallow. “Is there somewhere you want me to put my bag?”

She’s moved to the kitchen, doing something in the dishwasher embedded in the island. “Oh,” she pops her head up, “you can just put it by the fireplace.” She points across the living room.

It’s made of stone and looks to be woodburning, but there aren’t any ashes in it. You set your bag down gently, and look at the fire-starting tools that hang on a rack nearby. They look brand-new, shiny and gleaming. She either must have people clean her house constantly, or she never uses the fireplace. That would be a shame. Nothing like a good wood-burning fire to warm yourself up, especially in a house this nice.

In fact, you begin to think that her house _is_ kind of weird. It’s like stepping out of suburbia and into some big, fancy, urban condo in New York owned by some rich-ass CEO. You haven’t noticed any annoying _Live Laugh Love_ décor, or any crosses, for that matter. But Cass did say Heather is her own person. You wonder how she’s ever able to win over the PTA for votes when she’s not like everyone else – not tacky, not obnoxiously Christian, and _certainly_ not straight.

Maybe it _is_ the cherry pies.

Heather’s voice calls from the kitchen. “Could you do me a huge favor and put my coat over there too?”

You turn around. “Oh, sure—”

_What the fuck._

Head-to-toe. Lingerie. Black, sheer stockings. Garters. Lace, everywhere. Around her waist and cupping her breasts. You can barely see her nipples peeking through the sheer fabric. She’s leaning against the kitchen island holding her coat with one hand, and her other arm pulled across her chest. The coat dangles from its collar on her fingers.

You throb against your packer, and you think you actually may not be able to move from the living room.

“Are you alright?” Heather asks innocently.

The Windows XP startup noise blares in your head. Run _Brain.exe?_

“I—”

She crosses her legs together, and you’re overwhelmed with the image of her thighs and the dark triangle that they make with her lingerie. You realize that she’s wearing black heels. Windows XP error noise. _Thumk._

“Yeah, I—”

She raises her eyebrows and tilts her chin a little bit up, peering at you. Her lips – wearing that same maroon lipstick as when you last saw her, pout down slightly.

_Thumk._

Heather watches you struggle with amusement.

 _Brain.exe_ isn’t responding, so you just walk over to her and slowly, carefully grab the coat from her. She holds eye contact with you, eating you up with a hungry stare.

You don’t move. You _can’t_ move.

“I hope you weren’t looking forward to making goodie bags,” she says with a slippery smile. “I got a bit ahead of myself and made them already.”

“Oh,” is all you can manage.

“Mmm.” She reaches out and runs her index finger along the collar of your shirt, sometimes skirting your skin. You shudder involuntarily. Her finger is cool. It feels…good. “If I hadn’t, there would’ve been less time for you to fuck me.”

“I have two dicks in my bag,” _Brain.exe_ spits out – possibly the first useful sentence in the last five minutes.

“Is that so?” Heather laughs – that smooth, pleasing sound again. You’re so close to her, the sexual tension swimming between you both. She hooks her fingers in your belt loops and pulls you in closer suddenly – so close that your crotch collides with her and you have to brace your arms against the island counter behind her. The coat falls to the floor, forgotten.

She furrows her brow in brief confusion, and tests her thigh against you.

“What’s this?”

She presses your packer against your pussy again, and a strangled moan wrenches around your throat. _Fuck_. In your excitement earlier today, you didn’t think she might not _like_ a packer. “It’s a soft packer. I, um, like to wear it sometimes,” you stutter awkwardly. “But if it bothers you, I can take it off—”

Her hand snakes down to your crotch and squeezes experimentally. A high-pitched whine slips out of your throat.

“They make soft fake ones now, too?”

You nod shakily.

She lets out a little laugh and looks at you curiously, mischief twisting a curl into her cheek. She squeezes again, more purposeful this time. Your knees buckle. Thank _fuck_ you’re holding on to the counter.

“Amazing,” she says, pressing her palm into you. “I fucking _love_ this century.”

You knit your brow, panting. “This century?”

“Figure of speech,” she answers nonchalantly.

You’ve never heard of that saying before, but also you don’t have enough brain cells present at the moment to work it out, so you let it go. She wraps an arm around your waist and presses you against her, her hand digging into your lower back. Her tongue passes over her dark lips. “I love how that feels on me.”

You’re barely keeping up – her hand against your back burns hot through your shirt. “The packer?”

She nods, then turns around and leans forward against the counter, still trapped between your arms. Her ass – all wrapped up in that black lingerie – brushes against you and you’re gonna fucking explode.

“Why don’t you get hard on me, pretty girl?”

_Thumk._

Slowly – partly because you’re terrified of Heather, and partly because your brain is still rebooting – you press your bulge against her. She hums. You draw back and do it again, adding a little more pressure this time, watching how you connect with her.

“That’s it, doesn’t that feel good?” she coos. “Why don’t you do it a little harder?”

You suck in a breath and begin to draw away from the counter so you can grip her hips. One of her hands lands on top of yours before it can leave the granite. “These stay right where they are.”

“Okay,” you exhale. Readjusting yourself against the counter, you begin grinding against her in earnest, slow but hard, and each time you push into her, your clit jumps and throbs. You chase that feeling and go faster, a little jolt of heat spiking through with every press.

“Such a good girl,” she purrs, “humping against me like that.”

_Fuck._

“I bet you’d like to take me like this, pinned to the counter, fucking me from behind.” The image of it flashes in your mind, of you sinking your cock into her and absolutely fucking _railing_ her until she comes. She pushes against you, as if she’s teasing the temptation to do so out of you.

And yet.

“I’d…” you can hardly put a god damn sentence together. “I’d fuck you any way you wanted me to.”

Oh, you’re in _deep._

“Is that right?” She turns back around and gives you a quick once-over. “Why don’t you go to the couch?”

Wordlessly – and still heaving a little from all of that – you pull away from her and make your way over into the living room. She follows you, somehow getting in between you and the couch, and when you’re about to sit, Heather presses a palm to your chest. You stop.

She gives you a little shove, and you stumble backwards a step. “Bring me your bag,” she orders.

_Oh._

Without thinking twice, you rush to the fireplace. When you come back, she’s gotten herself settled on the couch, one leg crossed over the other – languid, yet commanding. Her eyes, dark with desire and something else, flicker up and down your body.

God. She’s fucking breathtaking.

“Kneel.”

The word spears through you, quite literally bringing you to your knees – as she instructed. She huffs a little and smiles, pleased with your begging-for-scraps expression, and wordlessly uncrosses her legs, spreading them a little, teasing you with the vision of her thighs and pussy so intoxicatingly close. You lean in on instinct, breath stuttering in your chest.

And all of that air leaves you in one go when something firm presses into your back and pushes _hard_ , forcing you to bend to the floor.

“Down.”

She says it like an afterthought. Her foot maintains steady pressure, and when you shift to try and look up at her anyway – because let’s face it, you have no self-restraint – she tilts it so that her long heel prods threateningly into your skin.

 _Stay there,_ it says.

You’ve never been so turned on in your fucking life. Everything is overwhelming – the position of helplessness you’ve willingly placed yourself in, how when you’re all bent up like this your packer commands almost all of your attention, how you can only see her ankle and calf, smooth and strong under the rippling sheen of her black stocking, and how you want to kiss it. Fuck, you’d give _anything_ to touch her, but the unspoken rule hangs heavy over your head.

Through the throbbing of your head and ears, you hear her unzip your bag and rummage through it. A lump slides down your throat.

“You really did bring me options,” she observes, a little condescendingly – in the hot, humiliating way. “How sweet.” She punctuates her statement by pressing you a little further to the floor.

 _Oh god._ You think you hear her pull something out of the bag, but you don’t have time to ask what it is – you wouldn’t be allowed to anyway, you think – as she adjusts herself on the couch. Her foot finds your shoulder and hooks itself there, pushing you up to where your head is level with the cushion –

– and with the blue dildo, base cupped in her hand, head a few inches away from your face.

You hazard a glance at Heather. She cocks a brow and presents the dildo to you a bit.

“Get that wet for me, won’t you?”

You don’t mean for your mouth to drop open at her request. She keeps the dildo steady in front of you, waiting ever so patiently for you to grow a brain and do something – so you lean forward a little to reach it, but you can’t – not with the pressure of her foot on your shoulder holding you back.

Absentmindedly, you look down and gently wrap your hand around her ankle, then slowly run your palm up and down her lower calf. She does not punish you for touching her, surprisingly, and so you continue, utterly enthralled, relishing the texture of the fabric against your skin and the contours of her leg in your hand. You float in that single moment of worshiping her, for a while.

But eventually, you look back up and try to lean forward again. Her foot does not move.

Unbearable heat slinks up your neck, crawling, belly low, all the way to your tongue.

“Please.” It comes out of your mouth hoarse and entirely too desperate.

Your heart beats a little faster with the hum of approval she gives. As her foot slides over your shoulder and behind you, the dig of her high heel pulling you in this time, and as your mouth wraps around the dildo, you realize just how deep you are into this. If she asked you to stop, you would. If she asked you to fuck yourself, you would. If she asked you to get up and leave, you would.

“That’s it,” she says, and the encouragement makes you beam even though you just begged her to let you suck on _your_ dick. “A little more saliva, pretty girl.”

 _That_ makes you practically keel over, but somehow you manage to pull back off of it and return with more vigor. Spit begins to collect around your lips. A string hangs off your chin. She pulls you in more with her foot, and the dick slides a bit further in your mouth.

You are _excruciatingly_ turned on.

Without warning, Heather swings her foot off you. Before you can react, she firmly plants it back on your shoulder and shoves you away from your dick, a long string of spit connecting you to its head. You blink and wipe your chin, looking again to Heather for what might come next.

She does not afford you the pleasure, and once again pushes you to the ground with her heel. Your breathing comes ragged – not because you’re out of breath, but because you’re practically vibrating with anticipation, because the sheer _power_ that Heather effortlessly commands is almost too much to handle.

Because she pushes and pulls you around like a little toy, and you are so, _so_ fucking into it.

“ _Oh_ …”

You can’t see anything, but Heather’s moan and the unmistakable _wet_ sound doesn’t leave much to the imagination. She bears down on your back harder as she pushes your dick inside her. It forces your abdomen and thighs to all press together, drawing attention to your throbbing clit against your packer.

_Shit._

She pins you there as she fucks herself slowly, her free leg falling a little farther open in her endeavor. A myriad of emotions tumble in your chest – frustration over how you can’t see the dildo sliding in and out of her pussy; impatience as all you want to do is throw her leg off of you and put on that dick yourself and fuck her properly; exciting humiliation over how she’s treating you as an afterthought, as something on the floor while she prioritizes herself. None of this, of course, helps to quell the constant heat that roils up in your abdomen, and against your bulge.

Heather’s moans reel up a bit in pitch, snapping you out of your reverie. God, you just – you really, _really_ want to be the one to make her come. Should you speak up? The possible consequences of breaking her concentration briefly unfold in your mind, ranging from you fucking the living daylights out of her to her punishing you to the point that you’re tearfully begging for her to relent.

Maybe she _wants_ you to say something.

Louder, slick wet sounds fill the room now as she pumps into herself faster. You think she might be close.

“ _Please,_ ” you gasp, and you hear her slow down, but you can’t stop the string of words that pour out of your mouth. “Please let me fuck you. Please let me make you feel good. _Fuck_ , Heather, please–”

Heather doesn’t respond, but she’s not fucking herself anymore, either. A beat goes by. Two. Then, the _plopping_ sound of the dildo leaving her.

“Is that what you really want, pretty girl?”

You nod, but then realize she might not be able to see, so you hastily breathe out a _Yes._

Some rustling from your bag. Your boxer strap lands on the floor next to you.

“Well,” she purrs, her foot finally sliding off of your back, “all you had to do was ask.”

The _mind games_ this woman plays. Ignoring the protest your back muscles offer at sitting up straight, you yank off your clothes, save your boxers. You’re about to ask her to turn around so you can slide them off when Heather – you take a second to drink in the sight of her, hair slightly mussed, chest still heaving a little, panties soaked and her thighs gleaming a little in the light with her wetness – stops you.

“Wait.” Her gaze affixes on your bulge and you pause, because even though you’re dying to fuck her, you’ll do whatever she asks, no hesitation.

And she fucking _knows_ it.

“Sit on the couch,” she says. You sit, and she gets up, grabbing your boxer strap and throwing it down next to you.

She straddles you, settles herself against your bulge – her wet heat radiating against you and your thighs – and cups her cool hands against your neck.

And she grinds.

You don’t know if you’re going to make it out of this alive. The working part of your brain kicks in, and you start touching everything – everywhere – the perfectness of her stomach, her arms, her ass – you give it a squeeze, and the moan that she puts in your ear is to die for. When she pulls back up she kisses you, her cool lips a balm against the overwhelming heat that rolls off of you in waves. She’s persistent and commanding and sharp and firm – she’s every temptation you’ve ever wanted to give in to. And aren’t you _ever,_ as she pleases herself on your butch bulge and moans into your mouth.

“Fuck,” she breathes, the word skittering across your lips. She leans back a little more so you can see her more fully, and grinds again for emphasis. “This thing is so god damn _satisfying_.”

She hisses out _satisfying_ , and aside from that being the hottest thing you’ve heard her say all night – and she’s said some fucking hot shit – that’s when you notice something off. Her lips curl back the slightest bit, her eyes fluttering closed, but you could’ve _sworn_ you saw—

“ _Fuck_ ,” she hisses again, and two gleaming fangs peek out from under her top lip.

“Holy shit.”

Before Heather can react, you’re already pressing a thumb to her lips. They part slowly, and you slip your finger inside, finding a fang and testing its sharpness.

A fucking _vampire?_

When she realizes you’re not repulsed, she gives you a little haughty _huff_ and a smile. “See something you like, pretty girl?”

Involuntarily your hips press up into her, and she hisses again with pleasure, her fangs jutting out a little more. You withdraw your hand and swallow. “Is this what you meant by–”

She gives you a full-fanged grin, and your eyes flutter shut, completely overwhelmed with how fucking _hot_ that is. “Holy shit,” you say again. It makes sense, now – you know, besides the fact that vampires fucking _exist_ – the coolness of her skin, the fact the fireplace was unused, the general lack of Christian paraphernalia, the whole _I fucking love this century_ comment. You briefly wonder how old Heather _actually_ is. An image of her sinking her teeth into your neck flashes across your mind.

Yeah, you’re not deterred in the _slightest_.

“You know,” she hums, leaning in again and dangerously close to your neck, “I can smell how aroused you are.”

Oh, _fuck_. You whine. You actually fucking _whine_ , broken and desperate. Instinctively, you turn your head a little to give her a better angle.

Her laughter is hot against your skin. “I’ve never had anyone so eager.”

That makes you squirm – _she’s a vampire, of course she’s fed off of other people; she thinks you’re eager, you want to be eager; it’s pathetic how easily you give in to her. Shouldn’t you be resisting?_

“But not yet,” she says. She slides off you and throws the boxer strap into your lap. “That goes on first.”

You nod, but when you realize she has no intent of looking away, you sheepishly peer at her. You’re not really a fan of being on full display – not even for a hot vampire.

“Um. Could you look away for a second?”

“Sure.” She gives you a little smile and turns the other way, busying herself with peeling off her lingerie.

You remove your boxers (damp from her endeavor) and soft packer, and slide on the strap and the dildo into its o-ring. But instead of telling her when you’ve finished, something takes over you. It’s not rebellious, necessarily – you have no desire to usurp her authority – but something different.

You get up from the couch, the weight of your hard cock between your legs only heightening your arousal, and walk in front of Heather, hands clasped behind your back.

You want to give yourself to her.

“How do you want me?”

Heather drinks you in, licks her _fucking lips_ – her fangs peek out again, and you nearly pass away. As she stands, she grabs you by the neck and turns you around, throwing you down on the couch. She straddles you again, spits in her hand and spreads it on your cock with a few good pumps. You let out a low moan and aimlessly fuck yourself into her hand.

“That’s a good girl,” she praises as she presses open-mouthed, wet kisses into your neck, “my good little toy.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” you groan. She repositions and begins to lower herself onto you. You hold her steady and watch, breath caught in your chest, as you slowly disappear inside of her. When she finally bottoms out, you roll your hips experimentally. The sound she makes is _disgustingly_ hot.

Her left hand wraps around your neck, and her right settles onto your shoulder. She leans in slowly, rocking herself a little on your cock, and gives you a single kiss.

“Fuck me until you come, pretty girl,” she whispers.

 _Fuck. Okay._ You start slowly, pulling away as far as you can given you’re pinned on the couch, before sliding back into her. The sounds she makes are divine (if you’re even allowed to describe a vampire with anything religious), and she begins to roll her hips against you when she’s seated back in your lap. It pushes the base of your cock against you, and you moan.

“Is that what you like, pretty girl?” she coos, letting out a little gasp as she slides up and down and does it again with more purpose. “Do you like it when I fuck myself on you like this?”

“Yes,” you answer – you don’t know how you even did – your thoughts have blurred all together, and you’re somewhere else entirely.

“You’re going to look so good when you come for me.” The hand on your neck forces you to look at her. She smiles again, wide, showing off her fangs. “And I bet you’ll taste so good, too.”

Your thrusts become more frantic as you chase your release, so close, so close, so _fucking_ close. Heather grips your throat tighter and tilts your head to the side. You’re only vaguely aware of her leaning in until her wet tongue passes over the skin on your neck in wide swaths.

Her teeth graze against you.

It’s too much – her rocking in sync against you, your cock rubbing against your clit, how she has you in the palm of her hand, getting herself off on you, her little toy, her good, good little fucktoy –

She knows, when your breath seizes up and you thrust into her _hard._ Your orgasm rushes up from your abdomen and races across your body, you’re bursting from the fucking seams, and she fucking knows exactly what you want.

Heather clenches down on you as her teeth pierce your skin.

She moans low and long into your neck, kissing and sucking messily as her tongue laps across the bite. Beads of blood roll across your skin, your sensitivity heightened with your orgasm, but it just turns you on more. One of your hands slides up and finds her head, and you pull her in firmly while the other finds her clit. She’s shaking – she may have already come once – but you rub anyway, lost in the euphoria of her sloppily drinking from you, thrusting indiscriminately as you make her come again against you.

It’s only when you begin to feel a little dizzy that she pulls away, and through your hooded eyes you see her face, practically glowing and absolutely ravished. Blood on her chin, staining her teeth, her lipstick a little smeared. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Panting, you give her a little smile. “How’d I taste?”

She wipes her chin and laughs. “You’re delicious when you come.”

* * *

> ** _You:_** _Cass, you’re not gonna fucking believe this…_


	2. (2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cass knows you fucked a vampire (oop) and she’s asking all the logical questions you forgot to ask when you realized you were having sex with a vampire (oop). So maybe you have to go see a doctor (oop) and then end up banging your vampire milf again anyway (oop).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content tags:** femme domme, fucktoy, milf(s), oral, praise kink, submissive butch, they/them

Your fingers are steepled at your chin when you hear Cass open and close your front door. She appears from the hallway in your living room and stares at your figure hunkered over on the couch. You don’t even have to look at her to know she’s crossing her arms like an annoyed mother. You decidedly choose to ignore her, and force yourself to fixate on the black TV screen.

“Are y—”

“I’m _not_ high.”

“Are you _sure_? Like, I know Heather is a hot motherfucker, but you’re absolutely _positive_ you didn’t smoke over there and she bit you too hard and drew blood and now you think—”

You sit upright and tilt your head away from her, brandishing your two _very_ distinct puncture marks in your neck. “What the fuck do you call this then, Nurse Jackie?”

Her silence makes you smug as fuck, just for a second, before she goes, “So…you _let_ her do that?”

“…The fifth amendment protects me against self-incrimination.”

“I’ll be honest.” Cass pinches her brow. “It explains a lot. The vampire theory—”

“You just saw _fang marks_ on my neck and you’re calling it a _theory?_ ”

“Don’t get all up in semantics with me!” she exclaims. “And I’m sure you just got like, the best pussy of your life. Aside from mine. But…”

“I mean, you’re not a milf and never drank my blood, so I think that’s two points to Heather.”

“God, that’s…” Cass rubs her face and sighs. “I need to sit down.” She plops down next to you and sinks into the couch. “Listen, I know you were in the middle of sex. And I know biting is a thing for you. So your two entire brain cells weren’t thinking of the possible consequences of engaging with a supernatural…”

“Milf?” you helpfully offer.

“Sure,” Cass throws her hands up. “Sure! The shoe fits. You banged a supernatural milf and she bit you. I’m sure that did a _lot_ for you in the moment, but we don’t know jack _shit_ about the consequences of that. Like, are you gonna become a vampire?” She begins listing these things on her fingers. “Are you gonna get addicted or something and lose your job and become a thrall or whatever they’re called? Can you get a disease? Like you would from an animal bite?” She looks at you, eyes wide. “God, do I need to take you to a vet?”

“Honestly neither of those things sound too bad,” you muse. “Vampires are pretty cool, and I’m tired of working for capitalist overlords.”

Cass slaps the back of your head with a dull _thwap._ “See what I mean?! We need to get you to a doctor. But a supernatural doctor or something.” She groans and falls back into the cushions. “Where do you even _find_ a supernatural doctor?”

* * *

“You’re joking,” Cass deadpans.

You didn’t think she would be exactly on board with the idea if you told her, so instead you refused to tell her who it was and forced her to go along with you. So now that you’re both standing in front of your supposed-supernatural-doctor’s apartment door with an _ESSENTIAL WORKER_ sign hung on it, even _you’re_ beginning to wonder if this was a good idea.

As if she read your mind, Cass murmurs, “God, it even has little painted lavenders on it and everything. Like, she had to sit down and _commit_ to making it.”

“I know.” Your eyes flicker to the knocker. “God, I haven’t talked to her in years. Like, it’s been since I got my master’s, Cass.”

“You’re fucking—” Cass bites her tongue and remembers her volume. “You couldn’t have texted her first?” she hisses.

“…She doesn’t _‘do’_ phones. Something about radiation.”

“Oh _god_.” Cass sucks a breath in. “Well, genius, this was your idea, so if you want to ask her, _you_ get to knock.”

Reluctantly, you lift the knocker and give a few solid taps, then step back and convince yourself that you _don’t_ need to hide behind Cass. There’s a short, unintelligible shout, and eventually footsteps approach the door and the handle turns.

“I _said_ I’m not taking any more clients this wee—” The woman at the door cuts herself off as soon as she sees you. Between being barraged with a wave of cold air reeking of essential oils and the sheer loudness of her floor-length floral skirt, you barely hear her next sentence.

“What the hell are _you_ doing here?”

“Nadia, don’t give me that bullshit when I gave you at _least_ a hundred mind-blowing orgasms in graduate school.”

Some instinctual responses simply cannot be helped.

Nadia almost slams the door in your face, but Cass catches it with her hand. “Listen, Nadia, I know you two have some history, but can you just hear us out for a second?”

She crosses her arms laden with braided bracelets (probably from some company, you think, that claims to be fair trade). “You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me. I was in the middle of meditation, and making sandalwood and patchouli vapors is _not_ cheap.”

Before you can begin, Cass beats you to it (and honestly, thank god). “So this may sound kind of strange, and I had to kind of wrestle with it too, so bear with me—”

Cass has wasted fifteen seconds and with each passing moment Nadia looks increasingly ready to slam the door, so in a panic you decide to do something about it. “I had sex and didn’t know she was a vampire and I got bit but I kinda let her and so Cass is mad and now we’re wondering if I should worry about any side effects and you’re the closest I could think of to a supernatural doctor.”

A silent beat passes and you can practically _feel_ all of Cass’s annoyance and anticipation bubbling around next to you.

With a resounding sigh, Nadia opens the door slightly wider. “Alright,” she relents, “come in.”

* * *

When you cross the threshold, you’re not sure how you don’t fall over from the overwhelming smell of essential oils. “ _Jesus_.” You cough. “These coochie vapors are fucking potent.”

“It’s _patchouli,_ ” Nadia snaps. “Don’t make me regret letting you in my house more than I already do. Your presence is unbalancing the energies in here.”

“Yeah, you weren’t complaining about my _energy_ when I fuc—”

“Ooooo _kay_ ,” Cass interrupts ( _actually_ thank god this time – you don’t know what it is about Nadia, but something about her makes you want to go ballistic). “Nadia, what are you thinking? Is this something we should be concerned about?”

“Possibly.” Nadia carefully places herself down on a cushion in the center of her living room, which is honestly probably a fire hazard with as many little glass bottles of oil she has: on the mantle, tables, and dressers that are already crammed with various plants – from what you can identify, lavender and clove – the rest you’ve never seen – and tall cylinders filled with incense. She crosses her legs and straightens her back, takes a deep breath in, and doesn’t say anything else.

You exchange a look with Cass. “Um…anything else to add to that?”

Nadia opens one eye and jabs a glare at you. “I’m re-centering myself after all of that toxic energy at the door. It’s very rude to interrupt.”

Instinct offers at least ten snarky responses, but you remember that you’re trying to get assistance from her, and decide to let her re-center herself or whatever. You have no idea how she got this _bad_. More power to people who want to do what they want with their lives, that’s fine. But when you were fucking in graduate school –

Alright, maybe that relationship wasn’t the most stable or the most healthy. You had met at a small house party. She was cute, with her little skirts and her bob-cut chestnut hair. She was real big on the organics thing, and sure, organic is great, down with big agriculture corporations. But then she tried to argue for things like organic…plastic? Organic faux leather (oxymoron much)? But the sex was good, and you weren’t dating, so you let it go. But then you noticed she started trying to treat everything with something “natural” – and then started to try to use you as a guinea pig, and man, once little Alice fell down _that_ rabbit hole, you weren’t sure if you wanted to continue to be associated. For your own sake, _and_ your liver’s.

So you tried to break it off. Well, she resisted so much that it was more like you had to hit that bridge with a fucking sledgehammer, and clearly the shrapnel from _that_ left lasting impressions in you both. But at least she’s doing well for herself (not like she would be at risk – you’re pretty sure she has a trust fund) – there’s clearly a market for her services in suburbia.

The little _ring_ of a small bell pulls you out of your thoughts, and Nadia takes another deep breath before opening both eyes. “Alright,” she hums. “Now that I’m much less on edge, we can talk.”

“Right,” Cass leads again, definitely not trusting your conversational skills at this point. “First of all, thank you for not thinking we’re crazy.”

“You’re welcome,” Nadia replies. “Plenty of people think _I’m_ crazy for the lifestyle that I live,” she pointedly glares at you, “so I extend my grace where I can.”

Oh god, you already want to vomit (and only partly because of the essential oils).

“…Right,” Cass continues, clearly holding herself up much better than you are. “What information would be helpful for you?”

“All of it,” Nadia says, “but the wound is a good place to start.”

You tilt your head and turn your neck so Cass can point to the two clean puncture wounds. Nadia hums with interest. “Does it hurt still?” she asks.

You shake your head. “To be honest, I don’t think it even hurt during.”

“Endorphins probably overrode any pain you felt,” she speculates. “There might also be some sort of numbing agent in her saliva. You know, I _never_ doubted the existence of the supernatural.” _Nobody asked!_ She gets up and goes to the mantle, scanning through the endless number of bottles. “Did you know that I treat a werewolf?”

That _almost_ makes you roll your eyes, but then you remember that you just fucked a vampire, so you bite your tongue. Maybe you’re annoyed because she’s so fucking self-righteous. “I feel like that’s something you don’t usually tell to the everyday person.”

“True,” Nadia concurs. “He was having sleepless fits. Mood swings. He was afraid that it would start impacting his health and his relationships. So I found something that would help his symptoms. He’s one of my regulars.” She plucks a small bottle with a dropper lid from the shelf. “He’s never _told_ me that he’s a werewolf, but he sniffs around my things when he thinks I’m not looking far too much to be some weird guy with a fetish.”

“Could be a weird werewolf with a fetish.”

Nadia turns around and wrinkles her nose at you for ruining her beautiful story. You shrug. “You’re the one who brought up weird fetishes.”

“You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“Ditto,” you grumble.

“Maybe _don’t_ say that to your doctor,” Cass advises.

You cross your arms. “Oh, and she can say that to her patient? Stupid. Also,” you protest before Cass can scold you again, “no _way_ Nadia is my doctor until she proves that she won’t fuck me up with her coochie vapors.”

“It’s _patchouli!_ ” Nadia whips around on her heel and stomps over, plopping herself down back on her cushion like a three year old would when they can’t have a second Oreo. “Don’t make me have to re-center myself for a _second_ time today,” she snaps. “The only other time I had to do _that_ was when my favorite aromatherapy blogger got outed as being problematic.”

You stifle back a laugh. “Very sorry,” you apologize not-very-sorrily.

Nadia takes another deep breath in. “Now, can I please have more information about this vampire? How does she behave?”

“Uh.” You shrug. “She’s very put together.”

“She’s the president of the PTA at Nico’s school,” Cass supplies. “Nico’s my son. She’s not a typical ‘mom’ – she doesn’t have any kids enrolled at the school, but she’s consistently re-elected, despite competition.”

“Also despite the fact that she’s literally nothing like what these other moms want in a leader,” you add. “She’s not religious – for obvious reasons. She doesn’t do catty drama.”

“So she’s competent.” Nadia nods a few times, taking it all in. “Controlled. You’re most likely fine, but I’d bet that she’s not the only vampire in that school.”

Cass squints. “What makes you say that?”

“I feel like a powerful vampire with no other obvious associations with the school wouldn’t do that alone for no reason.” Nadia pops open the bottle, and a heavy smell of wood and flower pours from it. It wrenches a few coughs out of you. “There must be something about the PTA that allows her to have optimal control over those less powerful than her.” To your horror, Nadia begins to wave her hand over the bottle a few times, spreading the fucking smell everywhere. “Or she could be doing it for funsies.”

“Sure, sure,” you agree, not really listening anymore because that _smell_ is too much. “Jesus, Nadia, what the fuck _is_ that?”

“It’s a mixture that I make to help with blood health,” she explains, completely ignoring your distaste. “It promotes purity and consistency. If there’s anything in you, it should negate it for now until we know more.” She hands the bottle to you. “Inhale five times. And not little ones either. Big breaths.”

“Oh, god, come _on_ Nadia—”

“Just do it,” Cass sighs. “The longer you drag this out, the more annoyed that Mark’s gonna be that I was late for dinner at the house.”

 _For Mark!_ you tell yourself before breathing in deep – and immediately sputtering. _If sandpaper was in a bottle._ Christ. The vapor scrapes against your nose and throat. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. “Fuck. Jesus. Fuck.”

“Four more,” Nadia encourages with a sage nod. “Don’t rush it.”

As evenly as you can, you manage four more inhalations, each one progressively worse than the last. By the end of it, you’re thrusting the bottle back into Nadia’s hand and leaning against Cass, coughing up a fit.

“Are they okay?” Cass asks with concern.

“They’ll be fine,” Nadia says. “It’s a potent mixture and hurts a little at first, but they’ll be back to normal in a minute or two. Did you drive them here?”

You feel Cass nod.

“Good. You’ll probably need to drive them back. Also, I don’t usually offer my services for free. So keep that in mind next time you come banging on my door during my daily meditation, which is from three to five on weekdays.”

“Uh…got it.” Cass shoulders you up. “Come on, you vampire fuckin’ idiot. Let’s go home.”

* * *

_**> C(ass): **God, I never want to have to fucking do that ever again. Please don’t go around getting bit by vampires you don’t know._

_**> C(ass):** You could get a fucking supernaturally transmitted disease or something._

_**> You: **Okay, okay_

_**> You: **So if I told you I’m going over to Heather’s again in a few minutes, but promise not to let her bite me again, you wouldn’t be mad?_

_**> C(ass):** On god if I have to drag you back to our neighborhood essential oil shaman, you’re on babysitting duty for the next five months._

_**> You: **…So that’s a ‘no, I’m not mad’?_

_**> C(ass): **You’re on thin ice, honey._

When you get to Heather’s, everything is fine. She opens the door and you remember thinking how fucking hot she was in her jeans and dark red longsleeve button-up. And then you took two steps into her house and the hallway began looking a little…weird.

It kind of twisted. Like something from _Inception_. And then you blinked, and the ceiling looked a little liquid-y. You remember hearing Heather ask if you were alright, but you don’t remember if you responded or not. You’re not floating around in space, but your brain feels kinda heavy in your skull. You blink again, and it’s a Herculean effort to get them to open.

“Come on,” you hear Heather say, and you think you’re being guided to the couch. Now you’re horizontal. You think. Your y-axis orientation skills aren’t that great right now. But your head is against something soft, and you mumble contentedly. You’re staring at the ceiling again, and in there Heather’s face is mixed in – well, it pops in and out. You’re not sure if that’s because she’s moving, or you’re moving, or if your field of vision is wonky. Something sturdy pulls at your hair. And then again. And again. Scratching…it feels nice. You close your eyes, and you fall back-first into black.

* * *

When you wake up, you’re sober as _fuck_ , and a weird ache behind your eyes doesn’t let you forget it. You’re looking at the ceiling. You tilt your head up a little and realize your head is in Heather’s lap, and she’s fallen asleep, too, her cheek propped in one of her hands. You shift slightly, and her other hand, you discover, is in your hair. You ignore the little soft stirrings in your chest and instead opt to rub your eyes. “Fuck,” you mutter.

Heather stirs. She looks down at you with that beautiful fucking face of hers and taps at your cheek playfully. “I was worried about you,” she says. “You certainly weren’t yourself.”

“I was…” You pause. “ _Nadia!_ ” You sit upright and steady yourself unconsciously on Heather’s thigh, scowling. “Fucking _Nadia…”_

Heather raises a single brow. “If someone drugged you, I might have to kill.”

You know, murder shouldn’t turn you on. You laugh it away and sigh. “No, Nadia’s…I asked her to, essentially. But this was an unexpected side effect.” You dare a look at Heather, who’s now leaned back into the corner of the couch, one leg crossed over the other, hands hooked over her knee, listening with a bit of amused fascination. God. How the fuck is she so _hot?_ “The more I don’t explain, the worse it sounds. I’m sorry.”

“You’re right,” Heather laughs. “But don’t be sorry.”

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” you look away, rub the back of your neck, “but I told Cass that…um. Well. About you. And she thought I should get the bite um. Looked at. But who the fuck do you go to for that? I knew this girl in graduate school who went off the shits with essential oils. And I figured well, if anyone’s going to _believe_ me, it’s Nadia. So she gave me this mixture to inhale that promotes _blood purity_ or some shit. And I guess she hasn’t used it on enough people to know it can make you high.”

When you hazard a look back at Heather, she only laughs and shakes her head. “You poor thing,” she sighs, and leans forward to stroke your hair. “Though being proactive about your health is wise, I’m sure that was a mess.”

“Oh, it was,” you groan, “she and I had a falling out in years ago, and she was _not_ happy to see me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she did this on purpose.”

“You could have just asked, you know.” Heather’s fingers find the small hairs near your ear and trace there. “But I can see where you might think that would offend me.”

“Thanks.” You lean in to her touch a little. She hums. “So, there’s really nothing for me to worry about?”

“I won’t know unless you tell me. What were you worried about?”

“Well…” you shy away a bit. “You know, typical vampire stuff. Like, does this mean I’m going to turn into one?”

“Oh goodness, no,” Heather laughs, and that brings you some relief. “That’s much more involved. Even if I was stuck on you like a leech, you wouldn’t turn.”

The thought of Heather biting you for longer than last time…you try not to squirm (but you’re sure she knows that already turns you on quite a bit). “Okay. What about…um.” You reach to rub your neck again, but Heather catches your wrist and holds your hand.

“Hey.” She squeezes your fingers and peers a bit to look at you. “I’ve been around for a while, and you’ve never encountered a vampire before. So it’s natural to have fears and concerns. What’s important is that you talk about them. Don’t hold back on asking something because you’re afraid of offending me.”

That bit of sincerity makes you realize how tense you’ve been – how tense this whole _day_ has made you, from dealing with Nadia to accidentally getting high to having to ask Heather about all these things. She’s usually so suave and confident that you didn’t realize that was contributing to your reluctance to elaborate.

“Okay,” you agree with a nod. “Is enthralling a thing?”

“Not in the way you see in the movies. You may find that you _want_ to be bitten, especially during sex. That’s all preexisting preference, though. But,” she continues, “someone can feel temporarily…drunk, after being fed on. Just a result of the loss of blood in your system. A responsible vampire never takes more than a person can give. Even if you’re comfortable with the idea of me taking more, which I know you are,” she says with a little tap on your cheek, “I won’t, because I know your body needs it. You don’t realize it, but you’re very vulnerable after someone feeds from you. That’s a time when you need to be watched and taken care of.”

A thought crosses your mind. “So, you could technically kill me?”

Her lips pull into a straight line, and she nods. “Any vampire can if they don’t stop themselves. Which is why it’s extremely important that you trust me. I won’t continue with you if you don’t.”

“Okay.” You take a breath in. “Thank you for not sugar-coating that.”

“When dealing with the matter of someone’s life, I prefer not to.” Her fingers find the hair at the back of your neck, and she scratches there. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?”

“I guess there’s no risk of me getting any sort of infection or disease, right?”

“Definitely not. That’s the magic of the supernatural. Diseases tend to be contained among us. Besides, you’re lucky with vampires.” She gives you a wink. “Since we feed on blood, we have to be immune to pretty much everything under the sun. You wouldn’t have such luck with a werewolf.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp. “So that means there’s a _really_ good chance that Nadia’s sniffing guy with mood swings _isn’t_ just a guy with a weird fetish.”

Heather erupts with laughter, then, and it’s so infectious you begin to laugh, too. She meets your eyes and gives you a wide, warm grin. “Are you feeling better?”

You smile. “Much. Say, I have one more question.”

“Hit me, dear.”

Oh, something about that _dear_ makes your heart flutter. “How old are you, really?”

“Five hundred and thirty-three.” A little smirk curls at the corner of her mouth. “How old did you think I was? Don’t worry,” she adds, reading your expression, “I’ll only be offended if you say five hundred and thirty-four.”

Okay, five hundred and thirty-three, holy _shit?_ “Well, when we first met…forty?”

Her face lights up with delight. “That’s around the age I turned. Nice to know I’m still looking fresh. From what I hear,” she leans in close, as if she’s saying something controversial, “the dead typically don’t age well.”

Your entire respiratory system is still a little fucked from Nadia’s _potion_ , but you can still smell a trace of her perfume when she’s this close, and it makes up for all the shit you went through earlier today. You find Heather’s face, and this time it’s warm, her dark eyes shining and soft, and you can’t help but smile and kiss her. Your body falls into it like it would into a bed, or a comfortable chair, and she holds your face and kisses you back gently. When she pulls away, she strokes your cheek with her thumb. “You’ve had a long day, and I know you had different expectations for this evening. Do you want to stay? Or go home? We don’t have to do anything.”

It’s incredibly considerate, you think, of her to voice that at all. And while you _have_ had a long day, you don’t exactly want to leave. But she’s right – it might be a bit much for today to do anything. “I wouldn’t be bothering you too much if I stayed?”

“Not at all. I enjoy your company, you know.” She thinks for a moment. “I think I have some popcorn in the pantry. Do you want to watch something? You pick. I think I have every subscription known to man. I tend to have a lot of time on my hands.”

Right, because she’s five hundred and _thirty-three_. Jesus. You laugh at the absurdity of it all. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

* * *

When you wake up, you roll over to find the spot next to you empty. The curtains have been pulled back, letting in the morning sunlight (aren’t vampires adverse to that? Something you’ll have to ask Heather at some point), and the bowl of popcorn from last night has been thoughtfully placed on the bedside table. The smell of coffee ends up pulling you out of bed. You wander to the kitchen and find Heather there, setting aside a cup of fresh coffee on the granite island. She smiles, looks you up and down once. “Good morning, handsome.”

 _Handsome?_ Your heart soars. “Good morning.” It takes you a second to realize that you’re in your boxers and one of Heather’s old t-shirts – mainly because Heather’s in nothing but a tank top and underwear. She _knows_ you’re staring, but instead she opts to slide the cup across to you. “I have creamer in the fridge.” As you get it from the fridge door, she finishes preparing her cup and leans back against the counter. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yeah, it was really nice.”

As Heather is handing you a spoon, she mentions offhandedly, “I thought so. You were grinding against me in your sleep.”

 _Clang_. You did _not_ mean to drop that.

“Um.” Heat shoots up your neck and skids around your ears. You’re definitely not rushing to pick up the spoon to hide your embarrassment. “I— wow. Jesus. Sorry.”

Heather looks entirely too satisfied with herself right now. “Don’t be. I enjoyed it.”

Consequences of falling asleep with a hot, five-hundred-year-old vampire, you guess. You take a _very_ large sip of coffee and try to ignore the fact that you failed to stir your creamer.

“So much so,” she puts down her cup carefully, “that I got myself off.”

You freeze. Somehow she’s managed to make herself languid and commanding, even against the counter. A wave of heat surges through you as she regards you with that slow, hungry _look_ of hers.

“And you didn’t wake me up?” is the first thing that ends up coming out of your mouth.

She smirks. “Didn’t want to disturb your beauty sleep. Plus,” she shrugs, “you did have quite a long day yesterday.”

Heather. Next to you while you slept, hand down her underwear trying her best not to wake you up after you pressed against her. _F_ _uck._ The cup of coffee, you decide, will be abandoned. “Is there any chance I might be able to make up for that?”

“Come here.”

As if you would be able to resist. When you reach her, your hands find her hips, and you slat a thigh between hers.

Her hand presses against your neck so that her thumb is resting against your chin. “You’re such a horny little thing,” she coos. “Aren’t you? Already so ready to please me again.” A gasp slips from you as her free hand slides across your ass and pulls you in harder. “You have no idea how wet you made me last night,” she whispers, so close with her perfect lips, but she’s holding you in place. “You were so desperate, grinding all over me. I could smell _everything_ ,” her hand at your ass squeezes, “your sweat and how aroused you were.”

You squirm in her grasp – you’re embarrassed – so, so fucking embarrassed, but it turns you on so fucking much you can’t help but push against her thigh and bury your face in her neck.

“Oh, you poor thing,” she says, and that sweet, condescending tone is back again – you clutch at her sides, begging without words. “Since you were so good for me last time, I’ll let you choose. What does my good little fucktoy want?”

You’re beginning to float in a different space. A pleasant, warm blanket fogs your head, and you press a kiss to her shoulder. You’re her fucktoy – her good, good little fucktoy, desperate to come, even more desperate to please her. “I wanna make it up to you,” you breathe out against her skin. “Wanna get you off. Wanna—” she presses her thigh against you entirely on purpose, and another whine escapes you. “ _Fuck_ , Heather.”

“Is that so?” Her thumb hooks under your chin and guides you back up to her. She kisses you. Once, firm. Twice, firmer.

“What were you thinking about when you got off last night?”

Heather hums, kisses you a third time, deep, slow. You’re falling in that warm, foggy blanket again, hazy and so, so good. “I thought about introducing you to my friends.”

Oh?

She licks her lips – god _damn_ – and moves to kiss the corner of your mouth. “I thought about us all having dinner, and playing with you under the table. I thought about how it would be so hard for someone as desperate as you to stay composed. But you’d do it for me, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” you answer instantly. You look at her, wide-eyed, and pray that she figures out you’re dead serious.

“Of course you would,” she says, as though she already knew. “And when dinner was over, I’d take you back to bed and reward you for how well-behaved you were. I’d let you get all that pent-up energy out and fuck me, and maybe,” her lips move to your neck, and she kisses over the fading puncture marks there, “I’d even drink from you, if you begged for it enough.”

“ _Heather_ ,” you whimper, squeezing at her hips. “ _Please._ ”

“Please, what?” she teases.

“Please let me finger you, _something_ —”

She grabs your hand and shoves it down her underwear, and immediately you find her warm wetness, slick against your fingers. “Get me off, pretty girl,” she purrs in your ear. “Then maybe we can talk about having friends over.”

You waste no time overwhelming yourself with the sensation of her – the smooth coolness of her thigh between yours; the stuttering of her chest as you drag your free hand under her breasts; the wonderful spot at the crook of her neck that – you discover – she enjoys having kissed as much as you do. The wetness that fills your hand, that your fingers slip against over and over – up and down her entrance, and then her clit.

Her hips jerk forward, and miraculously you look up to capture her composure broken, just for a moment, with her eyes fluttering shut and her jaw falling open. And you can see them, there, her two fangs inching forward past her top lip. You kiss her, swipe your tongue inside because you want to feel them, and they’re _just_ sharp enough to make a thrill run through you. Eagerly, Heather kisses you back, gripping the back of your neck and panting into your mouth.

You decide to experiment – just a little – if she’s this sensitive, you think, if you pressed down harder—

“ _Fuck_ ,” she hisses, canting into your palm. You follow her lead and pick up a rhythm, pushing back into her with your body as she grinds against you. Her thigh is still trapped against you, and you’re leaving a wet spot there, too, as each of her bucks presses into your cunt.

“My poor little fucktoy,” she says, as though she can read your mind, “so desperate to come too. You don’t even— _mmm_ ,” your finger passes over her clit again, “don’t even realize you’re whimpering.”

 _Oh god_. You roll against her thigh harder. You’re close, but you’re going to get her off first, because you’re her good little fucktoy, and she hasn’t given you permission yet, and _she_ deserves to get off first—

“That’s right,” Heather purrs, and _good fuck,_ how do you keep saying this shit aloud and not realizing it? “I got so lucky. I didn’t even have to train you. You just want to be good for me.” She leans into your hand again, her lips find your neck and she kisses and kisses and kisses. As she finds her way up to your ear, she says, “Put your pretty little fingers inside me.”

Literally _no_ hesitation you are so fucking close two fingers slide into her and a long, low moan skitters across your skin and you’re pushing in and out in and out and you can feel her clenching and twitching and bucking against you and heavy warm fog your orgasm roils in your abdomen and burns you from the inside but you tell it not yet, not yet, not yet, Heather clutches on to you and

_prick_

pleasant and warm and you’re shaking – you’re shaking but you’re sure it’s because she’s shaking, her wet tongue swathes over your neck and you are floating somewhere else while being held hostage by your overwhelming need to _come_ , but all you can do is press your fingers into Heather and watch her body, hear her moan against you, feel her convulse around your hand. And your first instinct, when you feel her kiss away the mess, is to kiss her once, the reminiscent tang of iron washing over your tongue, then fall to your knees and clumsily pull down her underwear, and lick through the wetness on her thighs, on her pussy. It’s only when Heather’s hand catches your chin and you think you hear her ask, _What are you doing?_ that you answer something like, _Cleaning up_ that you realize you’re shaking because you were so close to coming and somehow overrode every nerve in your body pushing for your release.

And Heather – Heather, still high off her orgasm – all of the smug dominance falls away, and suddenly she’s on the floor with you, leaning against the cabinets, pulling you in between her legs, holding you, showering you with open-mouthed kisses and soft, sturdy touches, finding you in that heavy, warm fog and praising you, _Such a good girl, making me come and waiting like a good little toy, cleaning up after themselves, letting me drink from them; you were perfect, my good little toy deserves to come;_ and you can only hear this and your own whines as she rubs your good little pussy until the release comes, filling you up with warm heat.

You both sit there for a while as the fog clears. The world becomes a little more grounded – you’re in the kitchen, and the hardwood is getting a little uncomfortable, but you’re leaned back against Heather’s chest and she’s pressing her lips periodically into your hair, and you think you could stay there forever.

“Back from outer space?” she asks. The teasing is all gentle.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Wow.”

“Indeed,” she chuckles. “How are you feeling? Do you need some water?”

“I’m feeling good. And yeah, I’ll take some.”

You move out of the way to let Heather get up and get a glass – not a bad view from down here, you think. When Heather brings it to you, you ask, “Is drinking blood always an erotic thing for you?”

“Sometimes.” She sits down next to you and taps the glass once, reminding you to drink. You take a few sips. “It depends on where and when. The hand or wrist is more functional. I had a good friend in 1793 that would let me have a drink when I had to be a little more inconspicuous. We didn’t have a sexual relationship.”

 _1793_. You blink.

“I keep forgetting you’re not used to hearing that,” she laughs. “But yes, the neck or thigh is a much more intimate place. You have to be careful with both, so it requires more trust. And with the neck…” she points to the fresh marks you have, “it’s more visible, so it can also indicate possession.”

 _Oh._ “Like a hickey?”

“Kind of, but more so. Of course, it really only matters to those that know what it means. And you certainly don’t have to make anything of it if you don’t want to.”

 _I want to_ almost falls out of your mouth, but you bite it back, not wanting to seem over-eager. After all, you’ve really only been with Heather for a few weeks. You settle on, “I like it.”

She smiles. “Wanna go get breakfast?”


	3. (3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You take Heather up on her fantasy she mentioned in the kitchen. Things go about as expected — and as unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content tags:** actual dick, aftercare, age gap, aphrodisiac, collar/leash, degredation (light), femme domme, fucktoy, hot burn, milf(s), praise kink, semi-public, submissive butch, teasing, they/them, threesome

As it turns out, you and Heather ended up talking about having friends over.

And as it turns out, you’re having friends over this evening. You and Heather discuss extensively beforehand about what the goals and limits of the night would be, and about what both of you want.

You want to be used, played with. But you don’t want to be pushed so far that you actually get caught – just the _idea_ of getting caught is arousing. _Actually_ getting caught is mortifying. Heather assures you that she has multiple fail safes and would back off completely if things were looking particularly risky. You also establish a light system: one tap for _go_ , two for _slow down_ , three for _stop_. And as for her wants – well, she typically wants whatever you want, but she just likes the idea of seeing you squirm.

It’s hot.

“I had an extra something else in mind,” Heather says, “if you’re up for it.”

You watch her with anticipation, and she opens a small drawer in an end table near the kitchen. She pulls out a small, narrow corked vial filled with clear liquid. Her lips twitch up almost imperceptibly as she nonchalantly presents it to you.

“If you want something a little more real this evening.”

You stare at the vial, brow furrowed, trying to understand what she means. As the silence stretches on, you can feel Heather waiting, patiently – smugly – as the gears turn in your head.

_Something a little more real –_

“There’s no way,” you finally breathe out when you realize there’s only _one_ implication.

“We in the supernatural world can bend the rules. Or, at least, _make_ things that bend the rules.” She picks up your hand and places the vial there, then closes your fingers over it. Her gaze settles on you, completely neutral. “You don’t have to, of course.”

“Do you want me to?”

“I want what _you_ want to do with your body,” she answers simply.

You look down at the vial and lick your lips.

“We still have a little time before guests arrive,” Heather reminds you. “You don’t have to decide right away. Regardless of what you choose,” she leans in and gives you a soft kiss near the corner of your mouth, “I’m going to have one _hell_ of a time trying to break you at the dinner table.”

* * *

Anticipation throttles up in your throat as Heather starts welcoming guests. As you flit around the kitchen nervously, you catch glimpses of her from down the hall: laughing, taking coats, and for a split second, she blends in as the neighborhood’s sophisticated, middle-aged suburban woman.

But when she glances down the hall and gives you a sly little grin, your stomach turns upside-down.

It’s hard for you to focus already. Eventually, everyone filters in and settles in the dining room, which is adjacent the kitchen, separated by two solid double doors. You manage to make your way through introductions and survey the table as everyone settles in.

 **1) Daphne.** Opposite you. She’s younger than Heather. Sunny-blonde hair done up nice in some pretty sophisticated braids. Maybe older than you by only a few years. You think you may have seen her briefly at Nico’s birthday party. She’s all curves and holds herself like she knows something you don’t. When she makes eye contact with you, she gives you a brief Mona Lisa smile.

 **2) Leo.** Also opposite you. Heather’s age. Remarkably butch. Short salt-and-pepper hair and a shorter barking laugh. Lanky but relaxed. He sticks out pleasantly in a worn-out flannel and solid undershirt. Definitely not from around here – his southern twang says as much – but it’s a pleasingly smooth lilt that lazily meanders from his mouth like honey. He’s a gravitating force for conversation, and he conducts it easily with his slender hands.

 **3) Fern.** At the end of the table, near Leo. Your age. Unsure in her movements, like a little fawn. The kind of soft that makes you think of innocence. Her big brown eyes are _completely_ enraptured by Leo.

 **4) Tessa.** At the end of the table, near you. Heather’s age. British. A silent hawk dressed in a smart-looking suit. She sips contentedly from her wine glass while she listens to Daphne and Leo bounce off each other. Her thick, dark curls pour over her shoulders, and her eyes drift slowly between them like she’s taking in every single little thing.

Heather arrives from the kitchen, food in hot mits.

_I thought about how it would be so hard for someone as desperate as you to stay composed. But you’d do it for me, wouldn’t you?_

Food’s on the table. Heather slides into the seat between you and Fern.

_Yes._

Heather briefly puts a hand on your shoulder – which is both reassuring and extremely distracting. When it falls away, it lands on your knee.

_Of course you would._

You try to remember to breathe.

“So,” Fern’s big, soft eyes are on you now, and you try to ignore the way Heather’s thumb is making circles at your inner knee, “how’d you meet Heather?”

Right as you open your mouth, Heather’s hand slides up your thigh and squeezes firmly. Air screeches to a halt in your throat. You desperately hope your fake coughs come off as not-fake. “Sorry – ” you say, focusing instead on trying to put food on your plate. “The PTA – ” fingers grip your thigh _hard_ and send white heat jolting up your leg.

Good fucking _god_ , she isn’t starting out gentle.

“The PTA hosted a birthday party for my friend’s son, Nico,” you try again, and this seems to steer Fern’s expression away from one of concern. “She wasn’t able to make it last-minute, so I went to help her out.”

“That’s brave of you,” Leo interjects. “No offense to y’all,” he places a hand on Daphne’s shoulder and nods his head to Heather, “but the PTA is like a Protestant church, ‘cept on the weekdays.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” you mutter right as Heather and Daphne are laughing with Leo. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Tessa’s gaze slide over her wine glass to you.

For some reason, you’re too afraid to turn your head and make eye contact with her.

Not like you think much of it for long, anyway, because Heather’s hand has snaked to your crotch. Right as your fingers wrap around your wine glass.

You can hear her saying it. What you _want_ her to whisper in your ear. _Good toys behave at the table._

The only response that escapes you is the slight twitch of your fingers around the glass stem. And you want – you realize, Heather’s initiative now veering sharply away from her aggressive start, her fingers gently tracing over the inseam of your jeans – you feel there’s something _not_ there that should be there. That you _want_ to be there.

You have to get away from the table. As you scan it – hopefully not too desperately – looking for something missing so you can make your escape to the kitchen and to the vial – a low voice from your right comes to your rescue.

“I don’t want to interrupt their conversation,” Tessa says to you, leaned in a little from across the corner of the table, and you finally have to meet her eyes. She’s extremely…intense. And calm. Framed by her dark, curling hair and wrapped up in her suit, you realize – in a manner that’s similar to being socked in the gut – how quietly powerful she is. “But it seems I’m out of wine.” She offers you her empty glass, cradled between her fingers, staring right through you. “Would you mind?”

You can’t stop staring at her face. She doesn’t seem to notice you’ve been dumbfounded by such mundane words. _It’s the face the words are attached to,_ something in your brain tuts.

It’s when Heather squeezes your thigh with such ferocity you think you’re going to launch out of your seat that you finally spit out words. “No – not – not at all.” You clumsily grab her wine glass and get up (practically launch yourself) to go to the kitchen.

When you’re behind the safety of the double doors, you collapse in an island stool and let out a long, well-fucking needed exhale. Between Heather relentlessly acting like she’s about to claw your jeans off and now the _Tessa_ wildcard – with whatever fucking _vibes_ that woman is giving off – you think you might be rendered incapacitated for the rest of the evening.

 _And yet_.

You set Tessa’s glass down on the island and fumble for the vial tucked away in an end table drawer.

_If you want something a little more real._

This is such a stupid idea.

An image of Heather groping your hard-on under the table flashes in your mind, and you’re halfway through gulping the mystery juice.

For a split second, you black out. Okay, so the mystery juice is just a quadruple vodka shot. You think you’re going to fall over, but you manage to stay standing by gripping the end table. When you come-to, you realize something’s different. In your pants.

Duh.

It’s got the familiarity of a packer – for that you are grateful. What is unfamiliar, however, is the _very_ evident presence of nerve endings. Part of you wonders how the mystery punch managed to make the transition so quick without you feeling any… _rearranging_ – and part of you realizes that you need to _get back in there_ before you get hard and draw everyone’s attention to your raging horny.

You hurriedly pour Tessa’s glass of wine and re-enter the dining room. Her eyes flit over you briefly. “Thank you,” is all she says, and she reclines back in her chair, returning to observing everyone else.

Why do you feel like she’s writing a whole report on you with just _one look?_

“I swear to god,” you tune in to Heather, “I’ve about had it up to _here_ with Caroline.” Heather’s hand returns to your crotch, but you _feel_ her pause – just briefly, ever so briefly, with surprise – and it delights you, _thrills_ you to know that you’ve caught her off-guard, even if just for a moment. “She’s really making it hard for me to do my job with her little stunts.”

On _hard_ , she gives you a firm squeeze.

Your abdomen and thighs light up – it’s almost too much. The best way you can describe it is this: It’s like when you’re making a puzzle, and you lose the last piece under the couch, and then a day later you find it, and then when you put it in its place it’s like _wow! finally! it’s so complete and perfect! i feel so accomplished!_

Except the puzzle piece is a dick, and the puzzle is your nervous system, and you’re getting _way_ hornier than when finishing a puzzle.

Heather’s hand doesn’t leave – she’s now lazily rubbing her fingers up and down the center seam of your jeans. You knit your brow and focus _really_ hard on cutting the remainder of your chicken into little pieces, and try not to put so much pressure on the knife that you break the plate.

“Darling,” Tessa murmurs to you underneath the conversation that Leo and Fern are now enthusiastically having, turning her lips a bit from the rim of her glass, “are you feeling alright?”

Right as your head snaps up, Heather’s grip on you tightens, and in order to keep your expression from completely falling apart, your knee rockets up so fast you have absolutely no idea how it doesn’t crash into the bottom of the table. Bracing your arms on the table’s edge, you feign adjusting in your seat as an excuse to fucking _squirm_ in Heather’s hand. “I – y-yeah.”

Jesus, your face is on fucking _fire._

Despite calling you _darling_ , Tessa regards you with a slicing gaze, like she’s driving a knife right into your soft belly and twisting it _hard._ She leans back in her seat and spins her fork gently between her fingers.

“You seem a little red.”

That’s not an observation. That’s a very particular kind of, _I think I’m calling you on your bullshit_. Heather’s fingers are suddenly playing with your zipper. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Say something. God damn it, say _something_.

“It’s the wine, I think.” The zipper _tic tic tics_ down. Your heart gasps in your chest, heaving _whum-thump_ after _whum-thump_. “Reds always make me a little ruddy.”

“Hmm.”

Even though you can feel Heather’s fingers slipping underneath your jeans now, you’re pinned by Tessa’s gaze, like she’s driven a spear right through your chest and left you hanging there. It’s _terrifying_.

And _extremely_ intoxicating.

A shrill clattering sound breaks you out of your frozen panic, and Tessa’s muttering a _dammit_ right as Heather’s hand draws away from you, giving you just a second of reprieve. You try not to gasp for air. Tessa’s fork has fallen out of her fingers and to the floor – she’s beginning to push her chair backwards so she can lean down and get it, and it all happens in slow motion: you realize that you’ll be caught, Tessa will see your hard-on and your unzipped fly, and you’ll have to explain why your dick is beginning to leak a spot in your boxers and – fuck – you’re _throbbing_ –

Heather’s voice cuts through the ringing in your ears. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it,” she says with a casual wave of her hand. “It’s fallen closer to us anyway.”

Tessa huffs a bit. “If you insist.”

You get exactly one second of reprieve. _One._ Not a second more. And you know, that’s not a lot of time to catch your breath.

Heather’s under the table, and instead of picking up the fucking fork, she’s _pulling out your cock_ and she’s _fucking_ –

You barely have enough time to scramble a defense before Heather’s lips are on the tip of your cock. Just kissing. But it’s the first time you’ve ever felt anything like that, and holy shit, you’re still at the dinner table, and like last time your knee flies up and it _nearly_ hits the bottom of the table except Heather’s inhumanly fast reflexes catch it and force it back to the floor, and you’d think that was hot except you’re trying with every iota of your willpower to keep your composure.

Heather gives one lick just under the tip, and you can’t help a full-body shudder.

Fern looks over at you with concern. “Oh, are you cold? I can grab you my jacket from the closet.”

Heather needs to get out of there, _now._ You’re loving this but you’re also _way_ too sensitive. You find her hand on the edge of your chair and give her two taps.

“No,” you manage, waving a hand as you hear Heather go _got it_ and re-emerges with the fork. “It was just one of those random shivers, you know?” You don’t think you’re panting. _God,_ you hope you aren’t panting.

“Oh, I hate those!” Fern exclaims. “They’re so weird.”

Leo adds something on and Fern’s sucked right back in, thank _god_ , and you do your best to discreetly tuck yourself back away (it’s a little tough, given you’ve never had a hard dick before) and zip up. Thankfully, no one seems to notice. Heather lets you catch your breath for the rest of dinner, save for a few well-placed squeezes that keep you right on that happy edge of anticipation. Eventually, Leo says he has to turn in, and Fern follows suit (unsurprisingly). Daphne remembers she has work to catch up on, and also takes her leave.

Heather gets up to show them out. “Could you start cleaning up dishes?” she asks you. “I’ll be back to help in just a second.”

Your eyes dart nervously over to Tessa, who’s been brooding over her wine glass and hasn’t said a word since everyone else has decided to leave. Heather doesn’t seem to notice, or care.

“Uh, sure.”

You’re still hard. _Visibly_ hard. So you decide to remain seated while gathering the dishes in your reach and stacking them, but in your nervousness you go too fast, and now there are Leo and Daphne’s dishes you can’t reach.

That you would have to get up. To get.

“Saving some work for Heather?” Tessa says from the rim of her glass.

“No – I – ”

Tessa’s got you speared to the back of your chair again. You immediately begin having an arrhythmia.

“Then I’m sure you can get the rest of the dishes.”

You’re floundering. Oh fuck. “I – well – ”

“Oh _Tessa,_ would you leave them alone?”

 _Oh thank god._ Heather sidles up behind you and puts her hands on your shoulders. _Add +2 protection._

Tessa looks up at her, unamused. “You invited me here specifically _not_ to.”

“I’m sorry – ” you can’t help but interrupt, because what the _fuck_ does _that_ mean? “What the _fuck_ does _that_ mean?”

Heather laughs and squeezes your shoulder. “I invited Tessa to come along and make things a little more exciting for you. The thrill of almost getting caught and all.”

You blink. “So the fork – ”

“Was intentional,” Tessa cuts in abruptly, then glares at Heather. “And if I had gotten under there – ”

“I’d have shoved my fingers in your slutty little mouth,” Heather snaps. “That was _mine_ to suck.”

_Oh my god._

Tessa leans back in her chair, completely undeterred. “Petty of you, don’t you think, Heather? Here I am, having done _all_ this work, and you’re unwilling to share with your guests.” Her gaze falls on you. Every time, it’s like you’ve turned around and met face-to-face with a poltergeist, or you’ve been struck by the world’s biggest lightning bolt, or five hundred knives are flying right at your face and something _deep_ in you twists. Something akin to fight-or-flight, but you’re suspended forever in the split-second zenith of _fight_ or _flight,_ hanging by a thread, holding your breath, bursting at the seams but _not just yet._

You’re excruciatingly hard. Nothing like an adrenaline response to get the blood flowing to your dick.

“Now that’s not true,” Heather chides. Her familiar, cool hands pet at your neck. “You were so good for me this evening,” she purrs, and leans down so that her mouth is right next to your ear, and _fuck_ , you shiver. “Would you like a reward?”

Tessa’s got you by the throat in the most metaphorical sense, and you’re wide-eyed like a deer in the headlights. You feel Heather look over at Tessa, who has one leg crossed over the other, hands hooked around her knee and staring right back at you in a way that unsettles you in more ways than one.

“Is _that_ what you want?”

“I – ” Words tangle up in your throat.

“Heather hasn’t properly introduced us,” Tessa interrupts. “A rather poor hostess. My full name is Ṟ̸̡̧̗̊͐͘ę̶̨̨̜̉m̶̤͆̔̔͘t̴̡͍͙̹̊̽͌e̶̳͇̫̣̒̿͌̎s̶͙͈̒s̶̝̊a̸̞̞̳̫͋͌̔r̵̙̝͒͊͋a̵͓̲z̸̼̝͓͂̿ͅ’̶͇̦̊̽a̶̙͌ṽ̵̢̢͕͜i̵̹̟͛l̶̰̭̊̚.”

Heather completely ignores Tessa’s insult and your jolting reaction to her name. “You can keep calling her Tessa. She’s a succubus.”

You thought succubi were supposed to be slinky and seductive, charming, coy, cheeky, even. But _Tessa_ – Tessa is straightforward, startlingly so – she’s eerily calm, but holds an intensity within her that she channels directly at you. Like a panther, maybe, eyes locked on its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to sink its claws into you.

You might…you might _want_ her to. You swallow. “How much of it is her and how much of it is me?”

“It’s all you, darling, or else you would’ve seen star-struck Fern drooling over me too.” For the first time, you see the corner of her mouth twitch up a bit in the briefest of smirks. “I’m just a little more than what you’re used to.”

* * *

“Safeword.” Tessa snaps her fingers as her heels _click clack_ crisply on the cherry wood floors.

“I – ” you stumble behind her, “I don’t have one.”

“Well then,” Tessa says firmly, though not unkindly, and opens the door to Heather’s bedroom. “Make one.”

She’s pinning you to the floor with her gaze again, and _really_ , someone’s got to tell her it’s kind of inconvenient when she’s demanding you talk to her and all you can think about is her stepping on you and taking what she wants.

Familiar hands are on your waist. Heather kisses the nape of your neck.

“Hemoglobin,” you blurt.

Tessa gives you a little look, and _yeah,_ you know it’s thematic given Heather’s supernatural occupation, but it’s something you’ll remember. As you enter Heather’s bedroom, Tessa doesn’t move from the door, and when you pass her something in your gut pulls to her _hard_ , like a magnet. Walking past her is about as easy as trudging through knee-deep water. When you turn around, Heather’s got her hand on Tessa’s back, murmuring something in her ear. Tessa’s eyes never leave you.

You’re suddenly feeling very weird, and that _something_ in your gut from a moment ago now sits like a rock in your stomach. “Can I ask something?”

Heather stops and turns to you.

“Tessa, you’re not…” you wring your hands together and look down, draw in a steadying breath, “…you’re not here because…I mean you’re here because you _want_ to be, right? You’re attracted to me and you’re not – because Heather asked – ” You pull yourself up to find Heather regarding you carefully, and Tessa now peering at you with interest. “This is a lot for me, and so I just want to make sure that…that you want to be here too.”

For a fleeting moment, Tessa’s intensity dims and she’s on an even level with you. She leaves Heather’s side and finds you there, small and insecure, and places a hand on your upper arm, gives it a gentle squeeze.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to eat you alive the moment I saw you.”

You suck in a breath.

Tessa gives a short _hmm_ , then turns to Heather. “I am _famished_.”

The stupid little part of your brain almost says, _But you just ate dinner,_ and then you remember that she’s hungry for –

Before you can stop yourself, you’re surging forward to kiss her, everything in you that was weighted by that heavy ball of anxiety now roaring to life, at ease and fluttering high.

Kissing Tessa is like standing on train tracks and hearing a horn a little too close. The pebbles are shaking a little near your feet, and you don’t know how long you have to jump out of the way. Or maybe it’s like being at sword-point – one wrong move, and you’ll be sliced right open. She’s _ferocious_ , consuming you with a voraciousness that’s almost overwhelming – but you’re falling into it, like falling off a cliff and you can’t see what’s below – all you know is that she’ll catch you at the last second, and the adrenaline rush has you scrambling up a mental high you didn’t even know existed, hungry for more.

Her hands find your sides, and she holds you firmly in place as she suddenly changes the pace of her kisses, now forcing you open deep and slow, like she’s savoring her meal. You whimper in her mouth.

Something in your chest flares, like a spark suddenly catching on kindling. She growls – fucking _growls_ – against your teeth and grabs your crotch. _Fuck._ You whine, fisting her shirt, and you know she can feel you throbbing against your jeans.

Her free hand finds your neck – oh god – _squeezes_ – just for a moment – oh god – holds you in place, in the palm of her hand. “I take what I want,” she hisses, “and _this_ is mine.”

That intensity you glimpsed at in the dining room is nothing compared to what you’re experiencing now. Tessa’s eyes are practically burning, and her hunger claws against your sides. You swallow and nod once, trapped by her gaze. Her hand moves from your neck to the back of your head, and she pulls at your hair, prickles of pain and pleasure shooting from your scalp. Gasping, you grind into her hand.

 _Already so pathetic and desperate_.

“That’s it,” she growls, squeezing your bulge _hard_ , “ _give it to me_.”

“It’s yours,” you’re gasping, squirming in her hand, struggling for air and she’s not even choking you, _fuck_ , “ _please_ just _take_ it – ”

Tessa digs her nails into your jeans and shoves you back into the bed. Before you collapse onto the mattress, you catch a glimpse of Heather with a slippery grin on her face – a few buttons of her shirt undone – moving somewhere else in the room. Tessa’s on top of you, bearing down on you with heavy kisses that make cotton bloom against your temples, in between your ribs. You’re vaguely aware of your pants being pulled down; Tessa rumbles in frustration as she yanks down your boxers, and now you’re exposed – the air is cool and Tessa’s palm is red-hot against your base, just holding you there, reminding you that _this_ is _hers_ –

You jerk up into her hand. Your head is full of cotton. You blink – you’re framed by her dark curly hair and trapped in her lips and you don’t know which way is up, you’re free-falling and she’s holding you by a thread that could snap at any minute, snap at any –

Your hips twitch unsteadily against her hand, which you don’t think is even doing much but her hunger is insatiable, she’s taking so _much_. You screw your eyes shut. Your nerves are bursting erratically at the tips like static electricity. _Too much._ You push through the cotton again and desperately feel around for your safeword, mimicking your efforts with repeated taps to Tessa’s chest. “H…”

The result is immediate, like a vacuum collapsing. In a great sonic boom, clarity bursts in and blows away the cotton that filled your head. Your nervous system is rewiring itself from the ground up, and you can’t form a full sentence, can’t tell them that now you’re feeling vulnerable. “No…”

A cool, familiar presence is at your side in an instant, and you turn to find Heather on your left, pulling a blanket over your lower half and inserting herself right against you. She hooks a leg over you and puts a hand in your hair, gently guides you back until you can form a full sentence.

“Overstimulated,” you whisper, suddenly feeling very shy. You find the crook of Heather’s neck and bury yourself there. “Too much, too fast.”

Heather hums, stroking your shoulder. You feel Tessa’s weight return to the bed, and now you’re sinking into a worse place. “I’m sorry. I know you were enjoying it.”

Tessa’s voice is surprisingly soft, as soft as you’ve ever heard it, and full of concern. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” There’s a beat of silence, and then, “Having something new that makes you feel whole is also a bit much for your body to handle at once.”

You nod.

Tessa sighs. She doesn’t sound upset with you, but with herself. “It’s not often I get a taste of fresh euphoria. It can act as a bit of a drug.” You turn to finally look at her, and for the first time she gives you a small smile. “You’re quite addictive to kiss like this, you know.”

Heat rushes up to your cheeks. “I don’t want to stop.”

“Let’s start off slow then,” Heather murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“ _Let’s?_ ” Tessa raises an eyebrow.

“And here you were just minutes ago, harping on _me_ for not being willing to share.”

“Fine,” Tessa grumbles, “but _I_ get the main attraction.”

You can hardly give any thought to what Tessa might mean by _the main attraction_ before Heather’s grasping your chin in her hand, pulling you to her glimmering eyes and wry smile. “Ready?”

“God, yes.”

She starts by kissing you slowly, taking her sweet time exploring you with her mouth and hand. She alternates between firm and soft touches, giving you enough sensation but not _too_ much, honing you in to every place on your body that she covers. Soon you’re breathing hard and touching her back, looser, messier.

She chuckles against your neck. “My good little toy, so eager, hmm?”

You can only give a soft whimper. Heather laughs again, in that sweet-and-condescending way that turns you on and she’s reading your mind already, trailing her fingers at the line of your hips across your abdomen. Your entire body stutters in response as she tests the area, placing a steady stream of wet, open-mouthed kisses on your neck and chest.

Somewhere nearby, Tessa sucks in a deep breath.

You manage to find her just to your right, and at some point she’s removed her clothes and holy _shit_ – your eyes flutter closed for a moment as Heather’s fingers trail slightly lower and you think about Tessa’s body on top of you, ravishing you, taking what she wants. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. “Tessa,” you croak, reaching out in her direction and finding her thigh, hoping she understands.

She does. She locks on to you and – in very deliberate, restrained movements – finds Heather’s shoulder and _bites._ Heather briefly stops in her efforts, looking only marginally offended. Tessa dips in and kisses her, then curls her lips, baring her teeth –

“Out of my way, darling.”

Heather rolls her eyes. “Only because you asked so politely.”

Her _teeth –_

_Oh god._

Heather, it seems, isn’t the only one with fangs. _Three_ pairs reveal themselves as Tessa turns back to you, scanning over your body, as if she’s figuring out where she wants to begin. And you think you’d be used to this whole extra-sharp-teeth thing, except Tessa doesn’t just have three pairs of fangs framing her incisors.

She’s got a _tongue_.

Which, of course, everyone has – but it’s thicker, and a gradient of black-green from tip to back (at least, from what you can see), and you are _certain_ you would’ve noticed that at dinner, so she must’ve been concealing it somehow. She’s splaying her hands across your ribcage, rumbling contentedly when you arch into her touch. She’s Heather’s sensory antithesis – where Heather is cool, Tessa is hot; where Heather roils you up slowly, Tessa fans the billows; where Heather teases arousal to the surface of your skin, Tessa plunges her fist into you and yanks it up. You can tell she’s trying not to swallow you whole, but with a mouth and a tongue like _that…_

Heather sneaks in touches every now and then, running a hand along your arm or a finger across your cheek. You try to show your appreciation by reaching out and finding skin to latch on to, but Heather stops you.

“That’s not necessary, dear,” she says, guiding your hand back to Tessa. “Focus on pleasing our guest. You want to be good for her and for me, don’t you?”

A whine wrenches from your chest. Tessa locks on you as soon as it escapes you, grabs your jaw with her hand firmly and holds her lips just out of reach.

“Answer her.”

It’s not a suggestion.

“Yes.” You’re beginning to shake. ( _It’s so fucking good._ )

Tessa licks her lips, and part of you knows she’s _actually_ tasting your arousal from this exchange. “Yes, what?”

It comes out before you can stop it. “I want to make you feel good. I want to be good for you. Tell me anything, I’ll do anything,” you’re babbling, you can’t stop it, you can’t fucking _stop_ , “I’ll do anything for you, I want you to use me, I’ll – ”

Tessa _snaps_. Her tongue slides into your mouth and the first thing you notice is how much longer it is that you’d expect, and you eagerly kiss her back and there’s little bits of cotton in your head but this time it’s _different_ , with the weight of Heather’s body next to you to keep you on the ground, you’re able to lose yourself in Tessa’s maw, fully able to appreciate each and every sensation:

her smooth tongue sliding past yours, dipping into your mouth and lapping up your arousal with every moan and whimper,

her nails, just long and sharp enough to leave raised red streaks down your sides,

her teeth pressing dangerously near your skin as she leaves hungry kisses against your neck and down your chest,

“ _Such_ a good little toy,” Heather purrs, “being used just as you should be. You’re going to make Tessa feel so nice and full, aren’t you?”

her mouth, pressing hot kisses around the base of your cock,

“That’s it,” Heather coos, “that’s my good little fucktoy,”

her lips, kissing up the shaft,

“stay with me, be good,”

heather’s kissing you, cool, sharp, slow,

tessa, warm, wet, at the tip, licking, the first taste,

heather’s breath against your mouth, chuckling, smiling,

tessa’s guttural growl around you,

 _gasp_ – heather kisses you again, heavy, pulling,

warm, wet

_the whole shaft_

Your eyes fling open and a groan jerks from your chest. Tessa’s _actually_ swallowing you whole, now, and the sensation is fucking indescribable. Euphoric. She’s unrelenting and only slowing down to scrape her fangs against you – as if she’s entertaining the idea of biting down. And _god,_ maybe it’s because Tessa’s been feeding on your arousal since dinner, but you know she wants to _so badly_ , she said it herself: she’s famished, she wants to eat you alive.

It takes a few breaths to get out your next words. “Do it.”

Both you and Tessa are in another state of mind right now, and before Heather can react Tessa’s mouth is closing – just barely – against the skin at your middle, and while it’s mostly her bottom teeth providing the pressure, it leverages enough to press the fangs and cause hot needles of pleasure to shoot up your chest and down your thighs.

Tessa’s eyes flush dark and her tongue unfurls out of her mouth, wrapping around you and squeezing.

“ _Oh f-fuck._ ”

“Such a good little slut,” Heather murmurs against your ear. She must be affected by this, too, because her fangs are out and she’s dragging them along whatever skin she can find. “It must feel so good to let Tessa take what she wants, hmm? To let her suck and bite at your cock like this.” She pauses, and on cue Tessa’s tongue constricts around you again, a wet and warm pulsing muscle, tasting, _feeding,_ “To let her milk you like this.”

“ _Hhh –_ ”

Heather chuckles and teasingly gnaws at the skin on your neck. “Just wait until she gets her cunt around you.”

Abruptly, Tessa pulls away from your cock. “I would say thank you for reminding me, but you know I can never pay you a compliment, Heather.” She snaps her fingers twice and a black leather collar and leash materialize in midair and drop on her fingers – a clearly well-practiced trick. “But I’ll let you do the honors, since I’m feeling generous.”

Heather takes them and holds them out to you. “Would our good little toy like to be collared up?”

You’re already sitting up and nodding. Heather laughs. “So desperate to be used.” She begins carefully, slowly affixing the collar around your neck, and takes a purposefully long time adjusting it.

When the collar is finally clasped into place, the leash jerks and you topple to the left, colliding with Tessa’s lips. Heather lets out a discontented noise.

“You were taking a long time on purpose, you witch,” Tessa sneers. She wraps the leash around her hand and greedily pulls you in against her. “ _Mount me.”_

All of the air leaves your lungs in an audible _whoosh._ “ _Wha_ – ”

“Oh for fuck’s _sake_ ,” she growls, wraps her hand around the leash once, twice, and _yanks_ you on top of her. She drops the leash and hooks her fingers under your collar, jerking you both nose-to-nose. “Little fucktoys aren’t meant to think. They’re meant to _fuck_.”

You nod rapidly and let out a shaky breath. “Just – this is my first time with a – ” _Succubus? Dick?_ There’s a lot of ways that sentence could go. You feel the weight of it between your legs and screw your eyes shut. “It’s hard for me to not think. I want – I want to do what you want. So bad.” You meekly try to dip your head away. “I just need help.”

Tessa doesn’t respond, just keeps her eyes locked on you as her free hand slips down between both of you. When she draws back up, she presents you with two glistening fingers.

“This will make you not think. Do you want it?”

You nod. For once you want your head to just be _empty_.

“Open,” she commands, and you obediently comply. Her fingers slide against your tongue, and a tingling that would otherwise be very unpleasant erupts in their wake, first in your mouth, but then you feel it twist and turn and spread through you as you instinctively close down and suck the rest off.

And then you swallow.

Your entire body warms pleasantly, humming with anticipation and need. And everything else begins to melt away, smooth and viscous, like golden honey.

Tessa’s countenance does not change. She simply removes her fingers from your mouth with a calculated carefulness and releases your collar.

“Mount me.”

As you find your cock between your legs and grab it, position yourself to enter her, another hand comes into view and wraps itself around you. Cool and slick with something. Heather presses behind you, lubing you up, and you moan unabashedly, bucking into her hand.

Tessa snarls at her over your shoulder. “Get your _bloody_ little hands off already!”

Heather’s voice is impish. “What? Have I soiled your meal?” She gives you one last, firm stroke and slaps you playfully. “Go on. Fuck her like a good boy.”

It’s delightfully blurry after that. Everything’s rich with sensation and texture as the only intelligible words in your head are _good boy_ and _fuck her_ as you press yourself fully against Tessa and sink effortlessly into her. She growls against you, greedily locking you in with her legs, and you only barely hear _give it to me_ because she’s gnawing at your neck and tugging your leash so hard you think it’s going to snap in her white-knuckled grip and because you’re inundated with the overwhelming feeling of her pussy clenching around you, completely ragged in the euphoria that carries you _up up up_ like air bubbles floating through all the gooey, golden honey in your perfect little head.

And _oh_ do you give it to her, and oh does she _ever_ take it, her cunt practically dragging you back when you pull away to stroke in her again. You’re hardly able to keep up with her demand but the sticky warm jelly in your head says it doesn’t matter, the coil in your abdomen turning from red to orange to white-hot hisses _rut rut rut rut rut_ as your muscles burn and scream and her nails rake up your back and sometimes little needles attached to red beads of blood poke to the surface of your skin only to be quickly lapped away by Heather’s tongue and you think you’re so close to giving her just what she wants, you just want to be a good little fucktoy and give her what she wants, and she wants everything, she’s _famished_ , and when you lift yourself away from her neck her eyes are dark with lust and her hand finds your collar and pulls and she hisses

_Give me what’s mine_

And then her back arches and she’s coming and her pussy is pulling you in and the white-hot coil in your abdomen unfurls all at once and you’re desperately clutching her as your cock twitches inside her, filling her with cum, and it’s one of the most intoxicating things you’ve ever experienced, you just want to keep coming in her until you can’t anymore, until you’ve got nothing left to give and she’s devoured every last bit of you. She kisses you through it all, rough and messy with strings of saliva on your chins, on her tongue; one of her fangs catches on your lower lip and cuts it open and blood drips on her chest, but neither of you care. The burning coil in your belly that had untwisted itself begins to twist itself up again, a little too tight, a little too painfully this time, and you realize you’re still coming but you’re panting, now –

Heather puts a grounding hand on your shoulder – ice-cold against your hot, wet skin – and pulls _hard._ You rock backwards and whine, slipping out and still twitching with a little bit of cum.

Tessa snaps her teeth at Heather, but all she gets is a scoff and an eye roll.

“You’re high on euphoria. You’ve had enough. And _you_ ,” she turns to you, “are high on aphrodisiac.” She kisses you, suckling gently on the cut at your lower lip. Kissing Heather is like melting an ice cube, and the glistening-golden-gooey-honey begins to drip, drip, drip away as she slowly brings you back down to earth. When she pulls away, you blink once, and then look at Tessa, who’s now stretched out languidly on the bed, looking less like a feral animal and more like an extremely attractive, naked succubus with messy, curly hair and a great set of tits.

“Hey,” Heather pops a light slap on your cheek. “Stay with me, now.”

You flush. “Sorry.”

“I should be apologizing, actually,” Tessa says. She rolls off the bed and puts on a pair of sweats Heather must’ve laid out much earlier. She picks out a cigarette from a little box on Heather’s nightstand and flicks the end against her thumb. It lights. She takes a drag. “That may have turned unpleasant if not for Heather’s intervention.”

You frown. “How unpleasant?”

“You may have been sore for a few days after. Muscle cramps, fatigue.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” you muse. Heather begins removing your leash and collar.

“Perhaps to you,” Tessa agrees. “But going too far when feeding off of someone is a beginner’s mistake. Not to mention disrespectful to you.” She sits back down on the bed and offers you the end of the cigarette. You take a drag while it’s between her fingers. “Feeding is meant to be a pleasant experience for both involved. When it becomes one-sided, it’s uncomfortable at best and fatal at worst.”

“How could me coming inside of you be fatal?”

Tessa leans against the headboard. “I could’ve sucked your soul right out of you,” she deadpans.

…Oh.

“I would have never reached that point, of course,” she explains, seeing the look on your face. “It’s difficult to keep feeding, even when you’re high off it, and willingly take from an unwilling individual. At least,” Tessa makes a face, “it’s difficult for those of us with morals. You hadn’t become unwilling, but it was starting to hurt, right?”

“Yeah, but just a little.”

“Right. Eventually that _little_ would have become _a lot_. And I would have finally noticed and stopped. But the goal isn’t to push you to the upper ends of your limits because I’m enjoying the taste, and I slightly overshot what I thought your limits were. So thank you, Heather,” she smiles, chewing lightly on the end of the cigarette, “as much as I am loathe to give you any sort of positive review.”

Heather leans back with her, gesturing for you to come sit between them. You follow. “That’s all? No apology for snapping your little crocodile teeth at me?”

“No.” Tessa holds the cigarette in front of you again, and you take a quick drag before she hands it to Heather. “You deserved that just for being a bitch in general. Oh,” Tessa puts a hand on your back, inspecting her claw marks. “These look quite angry.”

“They are, but I like them.”

She frowns and taps on an area of broken skin. “Heather, darling, could you fetch me a warm washcloth and some cream, if you have any?”

“I’m getting called _darling_ now? I _knew_ I was secretly in your high favor.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Tessa calls as Heather goes into her bathroom. She sits up and tilts your head so she can get a good look at your neck, gently pressing around each side. “Does anything hurt?”

You wince when she touches a spot near the back of your neck. She furrows her brow with concern. It’s odd seeing her like this when the entirety of the evening was spent with her scaring the ever-loving shit out of you. She peers at the cut on your lip, which is healing abnormally quickly for how deep it was. She attributes it to Heather’s earlier attention, pleased to see it doesn’t hurt, and returns to inspecting your neck.

Heather returns with a wet washcloth and cream. Tessa begins carefully tending to the marks on your back, cleaning them slowly with the cloth and then applying cream where needed. She asks Heather about the spot on your neck, who says it’s probably a pulled muscle from all of Tessa’s tugging or the exertion of fucking – that makes you flush – and so she gets behind you and massages your neck after she finishes your back.

They banter with each other as Heather gets another cigarette. You lean back against Tessa, and a light sort of happiness fills your chest.

* * *

**Bonus:**

“So, quick question,” you look at the dick between your legs, “when’s this supposed to go away?”

“Daphne told me it was one of those _when-the-clock-strikes-twelve_ concoctions.” Heather checks the clock on her nightstand that reads _11:32_. “About half an hour, Cinderella.”

Tessa bursts out in laughter, to your surprise. But not you. You’re incredulous. _“Daphne?!”_

Tessa squeezes your thigh playfully. “Daphne’s your fairy godmother that made the little potion you all but scrambled to this evening.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Heather laughs. “I had to invite her just in case anything went wrong. Although she _is_ a very skilled alchemist, so don’t think I just gave you some mixture willy-nilly.”

You’re thinking about her little Mona Lisa smile, is what _you_ think. “Did _everyone_ at dinner know what was going on?”

“Leo and Fern didn’t,” Heather replies. “But we knew they probably wouldn’t notice, anyway, since they’re so enamored with each other. You know, we’ve got a bet on how long it’s going to take before they notice their attraction is mutual.”

“How long has it been going for?” you ask.

“Oh, what would you say, Tessa, a hundred and fifty years? Daphne just lost her bet. She wagered on a hundred and forty-five.”

You balk. “A hundred and – !”

“They’re woodland spirits. Daphne forgot that it takes ages for them to do _anything_.” Tessa tuts. “You should see Leo try to choose from a menu in a restaurant.”

The idea of him in his sweet little flannel carefully picking through the menu for half an hour with his thick southern drawl makes you laugh. You hope you’ll get to see them all again sometime soon.

* * *

 _Euphoria:_ in particular, gender euphoria.


End file.
